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.

"Get. The fuck. Out of here", I said through gritted teeth.

The boy was still shivering. He looked pathetically small. God, what an embarrassing excuse of a human being.

"But-" he began. His voice was surprisingly deep; I had expected him to squeak. Would suit him better, I thought.

I approached him, bent down. I wanted to grab a fistful of his hair but was afraid it was dirty, or full of lice, or both. I wanted to lean in close to his face but was afraid he was diseased.

"Was I unclear?" I asked.

He looked down.

"No..."

That was when I saw it.

On the ground next to him was a syringe. I just stared.

"You..." White-hot rage boiled up within me. I stood up, and before I had had time to think, I'd kicked him in his stomach.

He didn't emit a sound, just doubled over, his arm protectively over the area I'd just hit. Some part within me flashed of guilt and fright. What if it is actually dangerous, hitting someone so hard in the stomach? If I had gone to university, I would have known, my parents would have said.

I shook them away from my thoughts

"You dare do drugs in my tent? You filthy scum. Get out." He struggled getting up, leaning on his hands. I aimed with my foot again.

"No!" He screamed, holding himself.

I couldn't help but smirk.

"Right. Get out. And I'll never see you here again."

I kicked the syringe away and out of the tent. The little whore looked at it in despair with terror in his eyes. Would do him good to be without it for a night. I stood up and watched as he staggered out into the rain.

Then, I practiced for two hours before the club opened, not thinking about the little man.

Or trying not to.

Izuna

It had been the second night I'd slept in that tent.

I had been filled with hope, hope that I'd found a place to keep safe and dry. And my cold had almost completely disappeared. That hope had now, as everything else in my life, died.

My stomach hurt terribly after he had kicked it. I staggered through the evening, night approaching, until I found an empty alley. There, I leaned against the wall, sunk down, and broke down crying.

I cried and cried and cried, allowing the horribleness of my situation encapsulate me. I cried of sadness, and of shame. I cried because I was twenty-seven, and had reached the lowest point of my life. I hadn't even tried to correct the man when he started talking about drugs because when had that ever helped? Nobody listened when I said it was insulin. I allowed myself some anger then, anger at the man's stupidity. Couldn't he see the syringe next to me was completely different than syringes used for drug abuse? Apparently not.

I cried myself to sleep. I slept restlessly the entire night.

When I woke up, I realised I'd forgotten my syringe of precious insulin outside the tent in my hurry to get away from the dangerous man.

It took me a long time to decide I would go back to the tent. And it wasn't until the day after that I'd worked up enough courage to actually do it.

I had checked my blood glucose several times during the day, and it was slightly high, although not high enough for me to be scared. When I ate a bun and an apple I'd managed to buy, I walked around a bit as exercise worked to decrease your blood sugar levels. But at night-time, my blood sugar was so high that I knew I needed my pen.

It had stopped raining, thank God, the evening blissfully warm. I had noticed I found the nights colder and colder the more weight I lost in my new state of homelessness and starvation, even if we were approaching summer. So I was thankful for this little piece of heat, even if I still wrapped my cardigan, the only piece of warm clothing I owned, tighter around me.

I walked along the beach, and saw the tent from far away. Now it was daylight, I saw that it was turquoise, the exact same shade as the ocean. It was beautiful. I wondered suddenly what that man had done in there. He'd behaved as if it was his tent. What was his deal?

I thought back on him. He was well and truly frightful. He was awfully tall and muscular, and he was albino, devoid of colour. I had been terrified of what he could do to me.

I swallowed and frowned, trying to feel some sort of determination. I had every right to retrieve my insulin! If he asked, I would tell him I wasn't a drug junkie!

As I approached the tent, I started hearing something. It was a soft whooshing sound, and I could see an orange glow from the tent visible in the dusk.

I had planned on just going there, head downcast, get my insulin, walk away and never come back. But curiosity got the better of me.

I tip-toed to the opening flap of the tent, the orange glow and soft whooshing becoming clearer and clearer. I looked down and to the side, saw my syringe. I picked it up before opening the tent flap, and peeked in.

I just gaped. The spectacle in front of me was so incomprehensibly beautiful, my brain slowed my vision down to slow motion just to be able to comprehend it. 

In front of me, in the middle of the tent, I saw the man, the same albino man who had kicked me in my stomach yesterday. He had a black beanie on, covering his white hair, and black trousers hanging off his hips, but nothing else. In his hand, he was twirling a staff that was on fire on one end. In his other hand, he had a flask of something. He lifted the flask, poured some of its content into his mouth, but he didn't seem to swallow it. Instead, he stopped twirling the staff, lifted it so the part that was on fire was in front of his face, and blew on it, spitting out the liquid. I jerked back as a big ball of fire bloomed up into the high ceiling of the tent; I saw its roof was black with soot. Over and over, he stepped, twirled, danced with the fire and made it bloom.

I stared, fascinated, for a long time, not only at the fire but also at the man, the white skin stretching over his muscles a canvas for the fire to paint all sorts of colours of the sun.

After a while, I slowly backed away, leaving the orange glow and soft whooshing sound.

I left the tent, walked back along the beach.

I couldn't help but smile. 

Only a little.