What would Izuna have said if he knew the truth, if he knew that Tobirama hadn't taken anyone else after him? There would have been a sick joy, sure; the idea of him suffering after what he did would make the cursed parts of him happy as he felt that such loneliness was deserved. Why would Tobirama be allowed to live, to fall in love, to have a happy life with a good, Senju-approved woman who probably had delightful round hips great for pushing out children?
Clearly, he wouldn't. He wouldn't ever. He wasn't allowed to be anything other than Izuna's living ghost.
They were close. Sitting on this floor, they were so close; he imagined he could feel the rough fingers against his new, strange skin, drifting along the back of his hand, trying to slip up his arm and drag the Uchiha closer. He imagined what it would be like to be pulled close, against that body, to feel--
--alive.
The fact that he would actually bring Madara here surprised him. "Do you plan on keeping me prisoner forever? Or both of us? You know he would never leave without me," he challenged, but another thought struck, dark, cruel: what if Madara didn't believe it was him? What if he thought it was a trick, especially with how he looked, like some twisted puppet, a mockery of Madara's grief? Why would he believe Tobirama anyway? Why would he believe that of all the people in the world Tobirama would bring back, he would bring back his enemy's brother?
Madara would attack him. Or worse, attack them both.
Because Tobirama was right; Izuna had said that. And in some ways, he had meant it. He wanted to be with Tobirama when he died, but from old age and not his own hands. Not from betrayal.
The look. That look in those red eyes, that expression, he couldn't-- he didn't--
"Stop it," he hissed, and this time he did close the distance, launching himself at the other in an effort to try to tackle him onto his back. His eyes were wide, more afraid, not vulnerable than angry, but he didn't know how much of his own truth he was letting through.
"Stop looking at me like that!" I can't hate you when you look at me like that.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-09-12 05:23 am (UTC)Clearly, he wouldn't. He wouldn't ever. He wasn't allowed to be anything other than Izuna's living ghost.
They were close. Sitting on this floor, they were so close; he imagined he could feel the rough fingers against his new, strange skin, drifting along the back of his hand, trying to slip up his arm and drag the Uchiha closer. He imagined what it would be like to be pulled close, against that body, to feel--
--alive.
The fact that he would actually bring Madara here surprised him. "Do you plan on keeping me prisoner forever? Or both of us? You know he would never leave without me," he challenged, but another thought struck, dark, cruel: what if Madara didn't believe it was him? What if he thought it was a trick, especially with how he looked, like some twisted puppet, a mockery of Madara's grief? Why would he believe Tobirama anyway? Why would he believe that of all the people in the world Tobirama would bring back, he would bring back his enemy's brother?
Madara would attack him. Or worse, attack them both.
Because Tobirama was right; Izuna had said that. And in some ways, he had meant it. He wanted to be with Tobirama when he died, but from old age and not his own hands. Not from betrayal.
The look. That look in those red eyes, that expression, he couldn't-- he didn't--
"Stop it," he hissed, and this time he did close the distance, launching himself at the other in an effort to try to tackle him onto his back. His eyes were wide, more afraid, not vulnerable than angry, but he didn't know how much of his own truth he was letting through.
"Stop looking at me like that!" I can't hate you when you look at me like that.