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You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
—Mary Oliver, "Wild Geese"
“ . . . As the worst of the storm hits land in the early hours of the evening, we’ll be seeing heavy rainfall and strong winds. Thunderstorms should give way to scattered showers by this time tomorrow. Expected this weekend are clear skies and cool temperatures. Until then—stay dry, everyone! This has been Channel 7 News . . . ”
Kento clicks the remote and turns the news off. He starts the kettle and goes to draw a bath.
In the eye of a storm, everything is quiet. The trees do not sway and the birds do not sing. Storms are sly things, they are. They hide their considerable amount of conspicuousness in a single, fleeting moment of inconspicuousness. Ingenuity? Malice.
There is no other explanation for the nature of storms. It is malicious, how they breeze about wherever they wish and leave whenever they wish. There is no consideration. When the storm hits, it must be weathered, endured. It is a terrible thing to be caught in a storm. There is no end in sight and then it is over all at once.
Kento opens his front door and lets the storm inside.
It stands about a head shorter than him and is only half as broad. It is not a very intimidating storm. It is dripping water all over his wood flooring.
“Nanamin,” Yuuji says, somewhat impatiently. His bangs cling limply to his forehead. “Towel, please. One of the metro lines broke down and I got stuck in the storm. Fucking storm.”
Kento blinks and the storm is a boy.
“Language,” Kento chides.
He turns back down the hall and fetches one of their extra-large towels from the linen closet. After a moment’s pause, he adds a smaller one to his haul.
When he returns, he sees that Yuuji has already stripped off his wet clothes. They lie in a heap at his bare feet. Yuuji makes grabby hands at the towel. At Kento. Both.
Kento obligingly drapes the large towel over his shoulders and tucks it under his chin, folding the corners over each other. Yuuji peers up at him through clumpy lashes. They have not moved past the shoe rack.
“I had to run here from the station. That's, like, ten blocks. My feet hurt.” Yuuji whines, as if there is no greater suffering than the one he just underwent. As if he has not run farther in worse conditions. His lashes flutter. “I’m freezing.”
“The bath’s running,” Kento says, because it is. Yuuji comes home every day at seven in the evening, so Kento turns it on at six fifty-seven. The hot water can be finicky. “Wash up and then come to bed.”
“Join me?” Yuuji’s lashes flutter again, purposeful. His eyes, honey-amber and wet, beg for pity.
“No.” The inviting expanse of Yuuji’s chest peeks out from beneath the towel, so Kento repeats, “No.”
Yuuji’s lips purse into a pout and his forehead scrunches unflatteringly. The wetness in his eyes has disappeared. Instead of looking like a brat, he looks cute. Maybe he is a brat and Kento is just in love.
He kisses the ugly wrinkles of Yuuji’s frown and nudges him towards the bathroom with a hand on his hip. His fingers brush against golden skin and it takes all of his effort to not clutch what he is being offered.
“I'll make tea,” Kento promises, swallowing past the longing rising in his chest. He thinks it is trying to swallow him whole. “It'll warm you up. Come to bed and I’ll dry your hair.”
Yuuji squints at him, searching for something on his face. Kento is not sure what he is looking for. Yuuji already knows it is love that is written in the lined corners of his eyes, in the sunspots from his youth; what else is there to see of Kento?
Whatever it is that Yuuji is looking for, he must find it because he steps back from Kento and waddles off to the bathroom, leaving small puddles in his wake.
“Thanks, Nanamin,” Yuuji calls back. He bumps into the corner, clumsy when he is usually not. “Put lots of honey, please. More than you think you should.” Kento will put two spoonfuls and then add two more.
He checks his watch—it is three minutes past seven. The tea will take five minutes to steep. Yuuji will probably take ten minutes to wash. Fifteen, if he remembers the existence of deep conditioners and then also remembers to wait before rinsing. It is a lot to remember. Maybe he will take less than ten minutes.
It is still enough time for Kento to let the other towel warm in the dryer for a few minutes. While he is there, he adds one of his older shirts, oversized on himself and softened by age, and a pair of socks to the small load.
He uses their electric kettle to make the tea. It was a housewarming gift from Gojo.
A cloud of sandalwood and vetiver surrounds Kento when he pulls the door open. The air is damp and sticky and smells of boy.
Yuuji looks up from where he had been watching water ripple against marbled tile and meets him with a bleary gaze. “Tired,” he mumbles. “Think all the steam went to my head.”
Kento hums a sympathetic noise and rests the clothes on the counter. He does not like the steam, either. His scars itch horribly after. He wonders if Yuuji feels the same. He will buy cream, in case.
Coaxing Yuuji out of the tub is an easy task. Kento reaches past him and pulls the stopper; Yuuji allows himself to be hauled into the cradle of Kento’s arms and clings to his chest.
“It’s alright,” Kento murmurs, brushing his lips to the top of Yuuji’s head as he drapes the warmed towel over his shoulders. He can give him this. “I’ve got you.”
“Mm,” Yuuji slurs. He nuzzles his cheek against Kento’s shirt and holds tight as Kento settles him against the counter. His feet do not touch the ground. “I know.”
Kento tugs the shirt over Yuuji’s head and carefully guides his arms through the openings. Yuuji is pliant in his hands, blinking languidly as he burrows into the loose collar. He looks—
“Warm?” Kento’s voice is hoarse.
He kneels on the plush mat and reaches for the socks. Unfolds them and then folds his fingers around Yuuji’s ankle. They touch. He squeezes, on the left side of too hard, and watches Yuuji’s toes curl and then relax. Releases his ankle and admires the bloom of his handprint. It lingers.
Yuuji makes a content sort of noise in the back of his throat and settles a hand in Kento’s hair. He cards his fingers through ungelled strands and thumbs the patch of gray on Kento's temple. Tugs at the elastic band of Kento’s eyepatch.
“Warm.”
It is quiet as Kento takes Yuuji's foot in his hand and rolls the sock up to his knee. It is soft. Yuuji’s bare skin is softer.
“Nanamin,” Yuuji mumbles. “You promised.”
“To dry your hair?” Kento asks.
“Yes.” Yuuji curls his hand into a fist, sweetly demanding. “Now.”
“Say please.” Kento, half-serious, kisses the spill of plump thigh over cotton. “Be good.” He is still kneeling.
Yuuji reaches his arms out, reaches for Kento. His eyes are big and wet, begging for pity, again. He does not say please. “I am good. You should carry me,” is what he says.
Kento carries him to bed and dries his hair.
Tucked under Kento’s chin, held closely to his heart, Yuuji has one hand pillowed under his cheek and the other fisted in Kento’s shirt. Kento can not move very far. He thinks that may be the point.
“Tell me about your day,” Kento says, as he shifts just enough to reach the steaming mug on the bedside table.
“I don't want to,” Yuuji replies. “It was just work.”
“I want to hear.” He raises the mug to Yuuji’s lips and helps him sip, settling a hand on the back of his neck. “Tell me all about it.”
“Tell me a story, Nanamin,” Yuuji says, instead of answering. There is tea clinging to his chin and he wipes it away with a careless pass of his sleeve. Kento’s sleeve.
“I don’t know any stories.” The tea goes back on the table and Kento’s hand goes back on Yuuji’s thigh.
“Make one up?” He sounds desperate for one. “A happy one, please.” Very desperate.
“Alright.”
Kento hesitates and then begins. He has never told a story before.
“Once upon a time, there was a little boy.”
“Like me?”
No, not like him. Kento thinks that Yuuji has not been a little boy in a very long time. It is a sad thought.
“Yes, exactly,” Kento says, because Yuuji has not been a little boy in a very long time. “Just like you. He was very . . . smiley. And had hair the color of cotton candy and eyes as warm as caramel.”
Kento is not good at telling stories.
“Yummy,” Yuuji murmurs nonsensically. Already, his eyelids are drooping. “Sounds pretty.”
“The prettiest.” Kento strokes Yuuji’s hair with one of his massive hands. “Hush, for now. I want to finish the story.”
“I thought you didn’t know any stories,” Yuuji grumbles drowsily, even as he obediently settles down.
“The boy was very brave and very kind. All across the land, he was known for his heroic deeds and golden heart. He helped everyone he met, no matter how big or small their problem was. He slayed great, big dragons and harvested humble crops the same day. The boy never complained about his tasks and always worked his hardest. He was beloved by everyone he met.
The people he helped often let him rest in their homes and he always accepted. Because, you see, the boy had no place of his own to call home. The same people who invited him to stay the night never extended their invitation and the boy never asked. That's why he was always wandering, looking for the next person in need of rescuing. He wandered for many years and it was only when he looked back at the path he had traveled that he realized something: he had arrived in the same spot he began his journey.
There were no more people to help, because he had already helped everyone. There were no more monsters to defeat, because he already fought them all. The boy, at that moment, felt very lost. What was he supposed to do now? What was his purpose?
Because the boy was so good, the gods took pity on him—they turned him into a bird. That way, it was his purpose to wander. And so the boy did, traveling wherever he pleased until, one day, he broke his wing. He fell out of the sky and could not fly anymore. A few hours later, another wanderer with no purpose came upon him.
The wanderer took the bird into his home and set his broken wing. They stayed together for many days, the wanderer and the bird. The wanderer was very gentle with the broken bird and made it a nest of cloth that was soft and warm. He fed and cared for the bird as best as he could. He brought the bird the sweetest fruits and took it out everyday to test its healing wing and to see the sky. Soon enough, the bird’s wing healed and it could fly again.”
Kento has never told a story before, but he is mostly sure that this is where he is supposed to end it. To say the end . He cannot bring himself to say it.
“Did the bird fly away?” Yuuji asks, after Kento does not continue.
“Yes.” Kento’s voice catches in his throat. “No. I’m not sure. The boy was free and could fly wherever he wanted to, since his wing was healed.”
“It'd be dumb if he left,” Yuuji yawns. He rests his head on Kento's chest. “He spent so long looking for a home. And the wanderer loved the bird, didn't he? He took care of it.”
Kento tries to swallow but does not quite manage it. “He did. But the bird had no reason to stay, so perhaps he left.”
“That's dumb,” Yuuji repeats. “He finally found a home and someone who loved him. Why would he leave?”
“I’m not sure,” Kento whispers. He does not continue, again. He is not sure what to say.
Why would the bird leave? Why would it stay? He has no answers.
“I’m not dumb.” Yuuji’s voice is soft and small. “I’m not.”
“No,” Kento agrees, something tender and knowing aching in his chest. It hurts. “You are very good, sweetheart.”
Storms are horrible things. They will tear apart everything you love and move along with only the destruction they wrought left in their wake. They will lull you with a complete, utter silence that bursts into havoc and then ruin you. They will ruin you.
You are an old man and you are broken. You can no longer weather a storm, you do not possess the altruism to nurse an injured bird and let it go. But you can care for this boy and so you do.
You do, you do, you do .
You invite the storm into your house, dry it off with your best towels, and then tuck it into your bed. It steals the covers in the middle of the night. It makes a home out of your home without asking first and you let it. You encourage it.
You mend the bird’s broken wings and do not let it go. It is alright because the bird did not want to leave, anyways. It is alright because you would not have let it, anyways. You think maybe you would, maybe, but no.
And still, this boy loves you like you are something more than you are, like you are good. It is enough to make you believe that you are.
Good, that is.