Lamp oil

9. His taste

Tobirama

I didn't believe in luck. Especially not my own.

I believed in hard work. I believed in blood, sweat and tears. Of wanting something, and doing everything in your might to get it.

This, however, had been pure luck.

My mind had been spinning the entire morning, filled with Madara and the man with the chestnut hair, and it had kept spinning. The day after I had seen them together was another day off which was agony, as performing always took my mind off things and now I wouldn't get that, but at the same time, I was glad since I was terrified I would see them together again.

But I still needed distraction. So in the evening, after I had trained with my poi in my tent for three hours, before any worker would arrive at the club, I had decided to go to the botanical garden.

I went there sometimes to walk, finding the brightly coloured flowers and myriads of people distracted me from my own thoughts as the human brain was very bad at focussing on two things at once. It had worked this time as well, and my thoughts exchanged jealousy for beauty as I walked through the gardens and greenhouses, reading the little labels next to flowers and cacti I found interesting.

As night approached, the number of tourists started to diminish, and I found myself wander aimlessly to hidden parts of the garden I had never been to before. The botanical garden felt eerie and unfamiliar at night, matching my gloomy mood as I contemplated my jealousy. Did I truly want Madara? Or did I just not want him to have anyone else but me?

As soon as I thought that second thought, I felt something within me click into place. I wanted him at my disposal. Obsessed with me. Available, if you will.

It was in these dark thoughts that I'd first heard, then found the tiny homeless man on the verge of being raped.

I closed my eyes now, remembering. It was the day after, and I was practicing in my tent before that night's performance. My mind was so full of what had happened, it didn't have time to contemplate the chestnut man.

As I turned my staff in soft eights, I remembered the primitive rage that had consumed my soul upon seeing the small, black-haired man being held by two, much larger men. I felt my heart blacken in anger and disgust. One more minute... One more minute, and he'd been penetrated. It made me want to throw up.

And the disgust wasn't directed at the homeless man.

I kept dancing. And that was when I noticed him.

I didn't know for how long he'd been there, but the homeless man was standing in the opening of the tent, watching me. His brows were softly furrowed as if he was awfully worried or shy, and he hid beneath his fringe. He was awfully pale, and his top and cardigan hung loosely off his thin frame. It seemed to be the only clothes he owned. I found it didn't bother me so much.

I frowned, looked at him for a while, kept turning my staff in soft eights. He hid a little behind the tent flap as if afraid I would scream at him again, and who could blame him? But I had no plan, none at all to scream at him. Not this time. 

Instead, I started dancing. I started dancing with my staff on fire.

I turned softly, my leather shoes making a soft scraping sound against the sanded floor. I twirled the staff in soft circles, threw it up in the air, turned once on the ground before capturing it. The homeless man, not having been chased away, came into the tent, just to stand on the inside. I backed off a little, and he took the cue, coming to stand in the centre of the tent. There, he closed his eyes, his hair still hanging over his forehead, and just felt me.