"Kenta?"
"Hm?"
He turned toward the sound of Taki's voice, sitting beside him in the old shrine. A sudden spring rain fell in sheets through the open doors, and pelted the roof. The pair of them were safe and mostly dry, between Taki's mastery over the water, and the care of the small, shy spirit housed within. Though the roof leaked, none of it landed on its guests.
Kenta felt light fingertips graze his forehead and push the hair from his eyes. He'd let it grow too long, but it so rarely bothered him anyway.
"Why have you never asked me to grant you sight?" Taki asked, rather suddenly. "I am a god. I could do it any time, if you only asked."
Kenta was taken aback. He tilted his head. "Why should I ask you to do that?"
"Why? So you could see! So you could see me, and the world, and everything! Why shouldn't you ask me to do it?" Taki replied. He added, somewhat abashed: "That is why I asked. Why haven't you?"
Kenta turned forward again, to the cool air of the doors. It was morning. The smell of wet grass filled the air, and the mist of rain kissed his skin and clung to his hair. He listened to the para-para of water on the roof, and the shifting of Taki's robes, and his breath. He felt the physicality of his presence as an extension of his own body, sitting as close as they were, and there was that ever present something about Taki that set him apart from men, that could draw Kenta to him through any crowded street.
He reached for Taki's chest, and traced his way up to his neck, and his cheek. Taki leaned against his touch, warm and alive and soft.
"I don't know. I've never thought to," said Kenta. "Why don't you ask me again, fifty years from now? I should have an answer for you then."
thank you so much for sharing it.