Heaven wait (Hashirama x Madara)

1. Obedient pet (Madara)

Cameras started flashing in my face as soon as the car door was opened for me.

I didn't mind the flashes in daylight; they weren't as strong then, and also few and far in between as most paparazzi preferred daylight to flashlight. But in the dark, they made my eyes burn and my head spin.

"Madara! Over here!"

"Look this way, Mr Uchiha!"

"We love you, Madara!"

I smirked. The love confessions made me understand there were fans here as well, and not only photographers.

"Do you want something to cover up with, Sir?" my chauffeur asked me.

"No, it's fine", I said softly.

I smiled as I stepped out of the car, waving a little, causing my fans to scream. I didn't pose for the cameras, but I didn't shun them, either. Instead, I focussed on my fans. Many wanted photos of me, some still wanted autographs. I even autographed an arm, and prayed to God the girl wouldn't get it tattooed the next day. I gave them a couple of minutes of my time before I thanked the chauffeur and the door to my apartment complex was opened, and my body guard guided me in.

"Madara, I love you!"

I sighed as the door closed behind us, leaving my fans screaming for me outside.

"Do you need to be escorted up, Sir?" my body guard asked.

I looked at him. I was taller than him with my unusual height, but he must've been at least three times my weight, his immaculate black suit matching his immaculate black hair, a pair of almond eyes hiding behind his sun glasses.

"To the elevator will be fine, thank you", I said and smiled.

"Certainly, Sir."

I sighed inaudibly. How had it become like this? I used to be a simple barista. Now, I couldn't get home from the gym without a bunch of strangers waiting for me outside of my own home. Most people only dreamed of fame; I had gotten it before I was old enough to truly consider it.

As the elevator doors closed behind me, my smile died. I took a deep breath and leaned my head against the gleaming stainless steel surface. How had it become like this? When the speakers pinged, announcing my arrival at floor 54, its only inhabitant being me, I could hardly muster up any energy to get out of the elevator. I dragged my feet, fetched my keys out of my pocket, a very stupid place to keep the keys of an apartment worth at least ten million US dollars, and opened my front door. I dropped the keys on the chest of drawers in the hallway, this simple piece of furniture worth more than most people's homes, before I started undressing while walking into my apartment, one piece of clothing after the other. My black Armani shoes. My striped shirt. My black trousers. My underwear. My socks. Until all that was left was my lean frame.

I stopped and looked behind me. I had left a trace of clothes from the hallway to one of the bathrooms, the biggest one. The thought of how I had faked liking towards my fans and given them what they wanted, which was a piece of me, made me feel comprehensively dirty, so I immediately turned on the shower and stepped in. I felt the wax that kept my longish short black hair in place over one eye wash off, and I helped a little using my hands. Then, I scrubbed my body so harshly it started to bleed.

I dressed in my softest clothes, freshly washed, my hair dripping wet. I went to the living area, looked at the magazines spread out on my coffee table. Vogue Italia. Vogue Australia. Campaigns for Versace, Armani, Fendi. Photo after photo of me. How had it become like this?

I tried to feel pride at what I had accomplished, but couldn't. I then went through every emotion in my arsenal to see if it matched what I was feeling, but nothing did. Joy. Relief. Even shame. But nothing. I felt nothing.