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Summary
There’s a person crouched in the trees above him.
Shaggy, short white hair drifts in lazy waves against porcelain pale skin, and the red marks that slash across his sharp cheekbones are punctuated by the impossibility of soft, fuzzy white and gray furred ears that adorn the sides of his face. His pupils- framed by white lashes that match his hair- are the same shade as the marks, as Madara’s still active sharingan that he's staring down without hesitation.
He's beautiful, and Madara is absolutely, undoubtedly in love.
And he is also dripping lake water like a bedraggled house cat while pathetically gaping at the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.
Damn.