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Creative Writing Essay

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Madara doesn't know what disembodied entity forces him to listen because he does listen right now to Tobirama's unending one-sided convo about oboes above all things. It probably has to do with Madara being literally stuck with Tobirama as lab partners for the rest of the semester. That or until Tobirama dies. Madara fingers the pipet in his hand all too viscously and God, it's a pipet, how much damage will that do smart one and thinks sooner than later.

"Can you believe that?" Tobirama pounds his stirring rod onto the scratch friendly table top and at hearing some cracks, Madara eyes through the murky film of his goggles his hand warily, scooching to the left so he doesn't have to keep vigil to the inevitable shattering of glass. "I mean, gosh. Don't people know respect or something? How can you - “slams his fist again, rattling the already bruised, three-and-a-half legged table, "steal an oboe, single-most, drop-dead boring instrument alive next to the piccolo (Madara begins tut-tuttering because Izuna plays the piccolo and an insult to his brother might as well be an insult to him) right before a concert? Chill a little, you could just borrow. Not like they'd kill you or anything."

Madara contemplates about the sharing part, glaring at the soon to burst glass wand Tobirama hasn't been exactly stirring like he should have the past twelve minutes since the lab started. He puts the killing under debate. Tobirama might seem the jovial sort but Madara's seen him whizzing out a few moves on upperclassmen thugs just a couple of weeks ago. Madara frowns. Tobirama actually defines as the clammed up, rugged good looks, tall, Edwardian type that reels so many girls in it ballparks his brother's fanbase. Killing would only complimen...


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...ll (hey, maybe the information might actually diffuse but highly doubtful) of flatfish blotted on a widespread page. Have nightmares about that, Tobirama. And maybe what perceives to be a headdesk directs towards him. At least the glass wand vies for the lowest spot in the list of Madara’s thousand plus worries presently.

When the bell rings some twenty-three minutes later, Madara saunters past Tobirama drooling an ocean amidst scientific paraphernalia and his incomplete lab report who’ll – keep fingers crossed – hopefully arrive thirty minutes late into his next period. And not wearily blink himself awake earlier than planned due to the clamor lunch brings or his friends locate him and drop balls at their friend’s state or whatever. Madara doesn’t look behind him and he knows his behavior brands as very, very cold. Worthy of a vendetta, he finds out later.




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