Madara kisses Mito on her wedding day.

She doesn't know how it's possible, but Madara's kiss is chaste and warm, dirty and cold, all at the same time.

But Uchiha Madara is a man of contradictions and hidden meanings, and for that Mito is unsurprised. She knows a thing or two about hidden things.

He doesn't take it by force, but he asks permission in a roundabout way, nosing about in front of her in an almost-comical way that makes her smile. The only thing that stops her from laughing outright is his dark eyes, speculative and hungry, as he leans down and presses his lips against hers.

She has never been kissed before, and all Mito can do is press back on the weight of his mouth. After all, she is young and sixteen and a bride at that. She is allowed to be impulsive, just this once. Just this once, she wants to be a child unthinking.

Perhaps I should feel guilty, she thinks, as Madara draws back, a trail of spit clinging on both their lips. Perhaps she should feel guilty because she is Hashirama's, for all intents and purposes; Hashirama's queen and bride and hostage. For all Hashirama's big talk of peace and harmony between nations, he is not so naive as to pass up an opportunistic marriage.

She remembers first seeing Hashirama a year ago. A large man made larger by his already-growing legend, the space he occupies always seems to be too small, always bursting at the seams. Hashirama is full of life, animated and full of good humor. But he made her uneasy by the way he looked at her. It was not a hungry, speculative look as Madara looks at her now. It was a calculating look, interested, eager to know whether she was worth the travel, for the easy smiles he'd embroidered on his face that fooled everyone except her. She felt like a show horse paraded around for his consideration, and she was even more a fool that she smiled and let it happen.

Old friend and distant family, that was what they called Hashirama, or at least that's what her father said as he smiled and patted her hand. It only took two pots of tea to seal her fate. Transaction done, Mito remembers smiling at her future husband and complying with his request to draw his name with her practiced hand. Already the dutiful wife, she draws the characters with bold, decisive strokes. Nothing else would do. Hashirama. For all his affability, the truth in his name struck her deeply, a lightning strike. This was not a man to be taken lightly. He was still a Senju, born and bred in war, and buried inside his laughter was a man made of stone and steel and purpose.

She sits back and gazes into Madara's unfathomable eyes, burning darkly, making her shudder.Perhaps I should feel angry, she thinks, because she doesn't want to be in the middle of this, this strange weight of Madara's pain, his entitlement. What is Hashirama's is Madara's and what is Hashirama's should be Madara's.

"What was that for…Uchiha-dono." It's not a question. Everything Madara does is with intent, and it's only a matter of time (and inclination) for him to tell her. Of that she is sure. Mito finds herself running through the inkings she's done to her body to ensure that she is protected, protected against her groom, yes, and her soon-to-be-husband's not-quite dearest friend. Madara and his contradictions…it almost makes her want to laugh again. She's come to discover that when it comes with Madara, there is almost little to no distinction to his love and hate.

But his curiosity, however….

One white hand rests lightly on her waist before it flutters upward to play with her tightly-coiled hair. Her decorative parchments adorning her hair flutters near her cheeks, kissing little butterfly kisses on her face. Written on them is poetry about love, happiness and contentment, a face painted on a not-quite willing bride. She wrote it herself, hoping that sometime during the day, it might come true. A child's hopeful wish, perhaps, but she wishes it anyway.

Madara reads it wordlessly as he pushes back a non-existent strand of hair away from her face. He smiles his quicksilver smile, passing through his features so quickly like a falling star. "You're so beautiful, Mito," he says, as if that explains everything. It sounds wistful, almost regretful, but what does Madara regret? His family, the enormity of his losses? It cannot be her shortened childhood, surely, for he has his own forsaken one to grieve for.

It occurs to her how strange she readily she accepts Madara's touch, how she leans to it, speculative and hungry herself. Maybe, she thinks, maybe he sees her now, not just as defined by Hashirama; just as she is seeing him now, without Hashirama at her side. Maybe she's imagining things. Maybe Madara just wants to play.

But there is nothing playful with the way his hands settle on her shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles through the silk of her wedding kimono. He cocks his head to one side, and the movement exposes one side of his graceful pale throat. It is vulnerable and oddly moving, and before Mito can understand it, she leans upward to plant a kiss in this hidden corner.

As she does, she hears Madara hiss in pleasure, and a surge of power floods her veins. Maybe he kisses her out of pity, but just for now he is powerless against her touch.

"Hashirama doesn't deserve you," he whispers, his voice low. His hands clasp her tighter now. She feels breakable under his arms, overwhelmed in the revelation of his understanding. In a few hours her transformation would be complete, from pawn to queen, from queen to protector, her allegiance to Hashirama burnt into her skin for all to see.

But for now, she has this. And what a wondrous thing this is, whatever it is. Madara burns a black fire and it fuels everything, even this, the next kiss. It catches fire in her response, arms wrapping tighter, her red hair finally running free and falling in a bright waterfall. Her poetry lies discarded on the floor, forgotten, to be rewritten later, moments before Mito meets her groom.

They have only this, this, a tangle of limbs and mouths and regrets. It may be a misguided sense of rebellion, of struggling against her destiny and Hashirama's oppressive purpose, but Mito never feels as alive as she does now. Madara burns her differently, hidden, like her many ink seals, and she gives into it even if she doesn't understand it.

From child to woman, from woman to bride, from bride to vessel of Hashirama's hopes and dreams (and somewhen in the unseesn future, the vessel of another burning flame), Mito allows herself to be only herself. So Madara kisses her on her wedding day, and she kisses him back, throws herself into this oblivion. Just this once, she pleads to any deity out there who cares to listen. Just this once, let me do this, and I will hold my peace. It is a pity that she recognizes Madara only now, as he sinks sharp teeth into her skin, as he marks her for his own, as his flint sparks her own bright flame for the first and last time.