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The world kept spinning even after they’d dropped into his own dimension, black in every direction, the similarity of the geometric islands floating in the void adding to the confusion about what was up and what was down. The space within Kamui was neither hot nor cold which made the streaks of heat trickling down his neck feel scalding. Obito reached up with a shaking hand to touch gloved fingertips to his ear. When he brought them close to his face and rubbed them together, they were tacky, the coppery scent of blood strong in his nose. Letting his head loll to one side he could make out a shape that he knew to be Madara drifting around his vision.
There was nothing to be done but close his eyes against the sickening motion and let the First Hokage’s cells show their power. Obito didn’t know how long it took, but eventually sound came back to him with the force of the explosions he’d just escaped from. His ears rang and his stomach turned over and he heaved and coughed, hacking up a stream of bile that he didn’t have the energy to wipe away. It was humiliating to be in such a state; all he could hope for was that Madara was in similar condition. He squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, as if hoping this would speed the healing along. There was no telling how long he’d been lying there for, only that the ringing and the nausea had died down to a level that was almost bearable.
A touch on his shoulder. Obito flinched, his body twisting rapidly as he moved instinctively to defend himself, but – too soon. He groaned, feeling his stomach turn over once more.
“Easy,” Madara’s familiar voice said. Obito clenched his teeth and forced himself to open his eyes and sit up – he would not lie rolling around on the floor like an invalid while the other man had mastered himself. He sat up, slowly. Madara’s face swam a little, then the picture settled like the surface of a pond when the ripples faded away. He was paler than normal, Obito was gratified to see, and long strands of dark hair were plastered to his face. He too, had streaks of dried blood running from his ears and over his neck.
Six hundred billion exploding tags. An impossible number. Konan must have been constructing them since the day they met for her to have had so many. No, she must have had a multitude of paper doppelgangers inscribing the seals night and day, day in day out, for her to have made so many! No wonder she always looked so miserable. Still, he couldn’t help but be a little bit impressed by her. If not for Madara’s Susano’o—ten minutes of continuous explosions covering the Sea of Rain would’ve done him in.
He’d had his back-up plan of course, and would’ve surrendered his spare eye without qualm just as he supposed Madara would’ve done himself if there had been need. Fortunately, there had not been. Despite the supposedly ‘incomplete’ form of the jutsu, its reputation as an ultimate defence had proved true. Almost. Apparently, even Susano’o was not soundproof.
And they had bigger problems now.
“What are you waiting for?” Madara breathed. “Get us out of here, we need to go after her.”
Obito sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, shifting over away from the trickle of his own sick in an attempt to regain some dignity. He scowled at a spot over Madara’s left shoulder. “I can’t,” he bit out. “I don’t have enough chakra.”
“Don’t have enough—!” Madara’s expression flickered for a moment, a small pinch forming between his brows, as if the volume of his own voice pained him. “How,” he continued more quietly, “can you be out of chakra? You barely did anything.”
Later, Obito decided. I’ll kill him later. Right now, he had neither the chakra nor the mental energy to stab Madara as he rightly deserved. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. I’ve been running my ass off for days. Fuck you.” He let himself flop down against the solid not-earth of the platform, keeping his eyes half-open.
Madara let out an aggrieved sigh and raised his eyes heavenwards, as if asking some omnipresent being why he had to be surrounded with such idiocy. “Fine,” he declared, swiping his hair out of his face. Because it was damp, it actually stayed out of the way instead of falling back in his eyes two seconds later as it normally would. “You’ll have to take some of mine.”
That got Obito’s attention, but not as much as the sight and feel of Madara swinging a leg over Obito’s hips. “What are you doing?” he shrieked, trying to squirm away.
The response was an impatient noise and a palm slapping hard into his chest, pinning him down. “What are you doing?” Madara echoed, in falsetto voice. “Giving you my chakra, you imbecile,” he said, the last word muffled as he brought his wrist up to his mouth and bit down. Obito heard it, a soft tearing of flesh. Madara looked down at him, his mouth wet and red with his own blood. The sight had him transfixed, his traitor’s heart jumping like a small animal’s when locked in the gaze of a predator.
“There has to be a way in,” Madara continued, tugging up the hem of Obito’s shirt. “For it to pass between us.” His fingers traced over the stark whiteness of Hashirama’s cells, until they reached the taut muscle of Obito’s pectoral. His touch lingered for a moment and his tongue flicked out, almost absently, as he sucked the blood off his teeth. Then there was a sharp sting and Obito hissed, but the offending weapon was already gone, black rod of willpower shrinking back into Madara’s palm. He laid his bleeding wrist over Obito’s wound and pressed down.
Obito didn’t have the strength to use his Sharingan and it was like having one of his eyes put out – he could only see what was going on with the most basic kind of sight. He could see, for instance, Madara looming over him—too close, far too close, his every sense screamed danger— strands of black hair falling around his face and tickling Obito’s ribs. He couldn’t see whatever exchange was going on between their bodies but he could feel it. A current of energy entered him from Madara’s wound through his own. Chakra yes, but not any chakra: Madara’s. It was like being struck by lightning, being consumed by wildfire, snatched up by a tornado, swept away by a tsunami. It left him breathless.
How could one human being contain all this? And this wasn’t even it, was it – this was a shadow of what he’d soon become when he regained the Rinnegan.
He wasn’t too sure of when the connection was broken, only that he could see again suddenly, with the multiple levels of clarity granted by his Sharingan. Obito panted up into the dark with Madara a solid weight over his thighs. The other Uchiha pulled his wrist away, and flexed his fingers, the indentations of teeth in his skin already fading. He shifted, and made to move off him.
Obito’s eyes narrowed. What possessed him to do it, he would later claim not to know. Perhaps he would blame the corrupting influence of the tempestuous power now flooding his body.
He snatched hold of a thick handful of Madara’s hair and yanked him down for a kiss.
After a few moments in which Madara’s lips—still laced with the metallic taste of his own blood—rested unmoving against Obito’s, they commenced battle. Obito had little experience with matters like this, but he refused to back down, meeting Madara’s offensive with equal fervour. Using his tight grip on the other man’s hair he controlled the kiss, shuddering when a low moan vibrated against his lips. He’d never realised somehow, that his lips were so sensitive. When Madara’s tongue traced the scar on his lower lip Obito shivered and nipped him in retaliation, which did nothing to dampen anyone’s enthusiasm. They rolled over onto their sides, hands roaming across shoulder blades, down the vulnerable curve of a spine. Fingers slid beneath cloth, caressing muscled abdomens, lingering on a protruding hip bone.
They drew apart, finally, because Obito felt lightheaded and unable to breathe. He was panting heavily and still had several strands of long black hair wound around his fingers when Madara sat up. His face was flushed, and he regarded Obito with a dark, heavy-lidded look.
“We need to work on your priorities, Obito,” he chided lightly. As if he were not also panting for breath, and looking artfully dishevelled in a way that Obito found himself far too intrigued by. “Get us out of here now. But later...” he trailed off.
Obito blinked away the haze of lust and stupidity that seemed to have temporarily consumed him. Madara was right, there was no time for this now.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Later.” He grasped Madara’s elbow and warped them back to the real world. Obito mentally shelved his plans to kill Madara at the first opportunity, at least for the time being.
But perhaps, later…