One dream in Paris

29. Half of him (Madara)

12 years later

Noooooo.

Every fibre of my body went against it. No. Absolutely not. No no no no no no no. It's Sunday, and I've been up five all six days of the week. I am not, under any circumstances, getting up.

I got up anyway.

Luckily, I wasn't absent-minded enough to forget to put my trousers on. Their soft hem caressed my stiff muscles nicely; I had so much time in the evenings with myself nowadays and I has used that time yesterday to train myself vigorously. It showed. I was forty-three and was in the best shape of my life.

The doorbell, that had woken me up, rang again.

"On it!!" I shouted. My voice echoed in the vast apartment. I was still living in the same place after all these years, and it was still equally empty.

I looked at myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, massaging one eye socket with the ball of my hand, using my other eye to make sure I was decent. The trousers did show off more of my v-line and the hair that went up to my navel than I was comfortable with, but there was nothing I could do about that. Or I could, but I wasn't going to. Several strands of my wild, long black hair had come loose from the braid I always made before bed, the streaks of white in my hair greatly contrasted against the black. I kind of liked all that white...

I went to the door and opened.

And stopped dead.

"Umm... Hi", a surprisingly deep voice said.

Outside my door works a woman, or rather a girl. She was quite tall for a woman, with shoulder-length, fair hair with thin bangs that went to her eyes in a very fashionable haircut. She looked broad and strong, as if she played rugby, and had a kind face that looked a bit odd with her baggy blue jeans and boyish white shirt. She had a black backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"You're Madara?"

It had happened, once or twice, that a fan had found my location and come to knock, asking for my autograph. But I immediately knew this wasn't one of them. For one thing, she had not called me "Chef Uchiha".

"Can I come in?"

Did the girl just ask to be let into a stranger's apartment? I looked down on her. She did, I had to admit, look like someone who could eat men for breakfast. Weightlifting, I thought. Less cardio than me. I was impressed. Impressing me was impressing in itself: I was never impressed.

I opened the door for her and walked into my apartment.

"Sure. Make yourself at home. I'll just find my T-shirt."

It took a while (I always lost things and found them in the most impossible places; I once lost my car keys for two weeks then found them in a container of protein powder) and went to the kitchen that was open to the living room where the girl sat herself down on the couch, looking very comfortable. She didn't do it in a rude way at all, though; it was as if she took me telling her to make herself at home to heart.

"Have you eaten breakfast?"

"Just a protein bar." She smiled a little at me. "I know who you are. I wasn't dumb enough to come full."

I smiled back and got working.

I usually never cooked for anyone but myself and customers, but this, somehow, felt different. She had demanded food from me. Also, she was so young she could've been my daughter, so some reptilian instinct within me wanted to provide her food.