Lamp oil

7. What we wanted

Tobirama

I had had an ache in my body for the whole day.

And it wasn't caused by the gym, or training with the poi. It was caused by fucking Madara.

I looked at my naked self in the mirror, smirking. I had bruised knees from when I had stood on my knees behind him. My mouth watered as I tried to imagine the bruises he must have on his back after laying down in my tent.

My eyes travelled over my strong torso, my muscular legs, the white hair in between them. I had always liked my albinism; it made me a lot more interesting appearance-wise than I already was, almost like a ghost. I put on my trousers to go out in the summer heat to walk the fifteen minutes to the tent to practice. The only thing I hadn't liked about yesterday was the fact that I'd missed training. So I had gone to the gym earlier in the morning today, and now I was going to practice poi.

Walking through the sweltering evening heat which I loved so much, my mind kept going back to the previous evening as well as the night. I had had a rare day off which was why I had had time to go see the performance. And God, it had been worth missing my workout for it. My mouth watered just thinking about Madara on that stage. We had slept next to one another that night, in my bed, or at least he had slept. I had been awake, fantasising about fucking him out of his bloody mind on the stage, everyone watching. That fantasy had made me so horny, I had to wake him twice just to take him again.

Not that he had minded. He had let himself be owned by me willingly. The entire night was a mess of sweat and steamed windows and hot tongues. And I wanted it again.

I approached the tent, feeling I needed to calm down as the poi were dangerous tools and I needed to stay focussed. I was blowing off way too much steam right now, and I needed to take myself down back to earth so I could focus.

And then let Madara take me to heaven later on after work.

But as I approached the tent, I saw the flap was open. I frowned; I always made sure to close it. Yes, the tent wasn't locked in any way, but there was nothing interesting to be had, entailing that I'd never discovered anyone in there except for that homeless trash that one time.

But now...

In the dim evening light, I even saw that the lightbulbs I had hung from the ceiling for light were on. I could also hear a light tapping.

I got closer, peeked around the entrance.

What I saw would change my life forever.

I stood transfixed for a long time, gaping.

His hair looked freshly washed, but sweat was wetting his fringe, making it fall prettily into his eyes. Actually, his entire body was covered in sweat, but my eyes had immediately caught his face first. I let my eyes wander over the rest of him gradually, as if I was unable to take in him in his entirety at first, as if my soul couldn't comprehend him. He was wearing the same black, silky trousers and T-shirt as last time, his grey cardigan slung to the side of the tent.

And on his feet he had a pair of light beige, silky pointe shoes.

The homeless man, the scum I had believed was a drug junkie, did not notice me. He was captured somewhere far, far into his own self, so much so that I suspected I could have walked in to the middle of tent and just stood there and he wouldn't have noticed me. But I didn't. Instead, I stood outside, peeking in through the flap, feeling eerily left-out from the spectacle in front of me.

The man was dancing ballet. He had no music, or so I believed; it took me a while to realise his music was the sound of the waves washing up ashore rhythmically. I didn't even know you could dance to the sound of waves, but he did, and he did so excellently. It suddenly struck me that the whooshing of the waves sounded exactly like the whooshing of the fire from my poi.

And the way he did it... Oh, God, the way he did it.

I had seen Madara dance, yes, and it was clear to me Madara was world-class and deserved his place in his ballet company. But this... This was something else entirely. Every movement was perfect. Every line was as powerful as it could be. Everything he did was distinct yet put together in a flawless flow.

This man was lightyears, lightyears better at ballet than Madara.

And even so, his body was starved, his muscles melting, his soul probably bleeding due to his situation. I wondered then how he had been in his pike. It was unimaginable.

I kept staring at him as he kept dancing.

Then, as if out of nowhere, the man broke down and cried.

I wanted to go to him.

I wanted to tell him that he'd done well.

More than well, actually; I wanted him to know he must be one of the best dancers in the world.

I wanted to sit next to him and hug him, hold him close, whisper that it was going to be okay, that whatever hell he was going through was going to be okay.

I turned and walked away.

We didn't always get what we wanted.

Izuna

Please...

Please, remember.

Please, remember how to dance. I'll do anything, ANYTHING if only you remember how to dance. I promise to treat you justly, to take care of the diabetes to the end of my abilities, if only you remember how to dance.

My prayer to my body had worked. I could dance. Somehow, my body could still dance.

I didn't know how it still could; I had no energy, no muscles, no nothing. The only thing I had was what was in my heart. Yes, my legs were trembling, and I had so much lactic acid in my calves and biceps I felt as if I might throw up. I was constantly aware of my blood glucose and had taken care to eat three fruit sugar cubes before I began. I couldn't imagine dancing for hours as I had before the starvation. But at least I could still dance.

And once I was done, I sat down and burst into tears.

I cried over the stamina I had lost.

I cried over the muscle mass I had lost.

I cried over all of the years I'd put into dancing that had gone to waste.

I cried over the unfairness of it all, of being kicked out of my ballet company due to an illness I couldn't help.

I cried over my country's government that did not protect my financial situation.

I cried over being so unlikeable that I had no friends who could help me.

And I cried over the fact that the fire artist would never, ever be impressed by me after having fucked someone as perfect as Madara the ballet dancer.

I wanted him to come and hold me.

I wanted him to come and hold me so bad.

We didn't always get what we wanted.