Lamp oil

4. Safe and dry

Tobirama

One of the true joys about living in the country to which I had moved to work as a fire artist was the weather.

It was almost always sunny, the nights tropical, the summers unbearable to some, but not me as I loved the heat, and the winters were mild. It was a goldmine for tourists. I didn't like tourists, and never had. Luckily, the country was enormously expensive, so only people with money could come, people who were, I believed, more well-behaved than the classical tourist.

I thrived in the hot climate. Performing at night, I would have pearls of sweat glistening on my upper body once I was done. I loved exercising in the heat as well. I swam in the tropical, turquoise ocean almost every day. In the evenings, I strolled through the clean streets among pastel houses and expensive shops, breathing in the soft smell of flowers.

This week, however, was filled with rain. It was unusual here, but when it rained, it well and truly poured, usually for days. It didn't scare the tourists away from the beach club, however; they knew my performance would happen anyway, and the effect of the fire and the rain and my strong body performing was really something else, so they came.

My ability to attract tourists made me feel more than pride. I felt better than everyone. And why shouldn't I; I had worked my ass off to reach my position. I had once searched the place on TripAdvisor, and to my great glee, the club was recommended specifically because I was performing in it every night.

It was a good life, I thought as I walked through the pouring rain to my practice tent. I didn't have many days off, but I worked only a few hours each night, and earned more than many with a university degree. Don't get me wrong; I respected people who were educated. What I couldn't stand, however, was people who were miserable.

It angered me, thinking of those who were unable to provide for themselves. If I could work my way up without a degree, everyone else should be able to as well. Our city was, despite its riches, not devoid of homeless people and beggars. I felt contempt whenever I saw one. They were filthy, lazy people who should get a job and a haircut.

As I walked towards my tent, the sound of the waves washing ashore was drowned in the sound of the heavy rain hammering on the ocean surface. As I reached the opening, that sound was exchanged for the rain hammering on the fire-safe canvas, a turquoise blue the exact same shade as the ocean.

But as I opened the tent flap, I saw a figure laying down on the sand within.

I frowned, not understanding at first. Then, it dawned on me. No way... I don't think so, little fucker.

On the ground lay a small man. I couldn't see his face as he lay on his side with his back to me, so I couldn't discern his age, but he was short and skinnier even than Madara, and Madara was a fucking ballerina. This man had a dark grey cardigan that was soaking wet, and long-ish, short, black hair that needed a trim and a comb-through. He was using a worn backpack as his pillow, and he was breathing softly. I saw he was trembling as well.

"Oyy!" I shouted.

I had expected the man to slowly awake and turn to me, but he jerked, sat up with eyes wide open, hyper-alert as if he'd been readying himself to fight in his sleep.

Young, was my first thought; the man was younger than I was. Despite him being awfully thin, his face was full, pearly white, and he had lush lips. His hair framed beautiful, brown eyes. I decided I changed my mind and his hair did not need a trim; the length suited him incredibly.

I forced myself to snap back out of it, realising what the fuck was going on. There was this homeless boy in my practice tent. How dare he bring his filth to my private space? I shivered by the mere presence of him.