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It’s way past a gentle ‘pitter patter’—now it’s blasting down so hard that Jean-Jacques keeps half expecting to hear the window shatter. The fact that it’s open isn’t helping—one half slid aside, the curtains both scrunched back, and Jean-Jacques’ got a bucket on the floor that he knows isn’t catching all of it. It’d be smarter to leave the window open in the washroom, where rain on the tiles wouldn’t matter, but he wouldn’t be able to hear through it from his bedroom. He always leaves the window nearest to him open just in case.
Tonight, that’s especially important. Because even though it’s one a.m. and he should be fast asleep, all he can think about is Otabek drowning in the storm. He knows Otabek’s likely tucked safely under the strongest branches he can find, up away from the running mud, managing just fine. Binturongs in the wild always do. He probably did at the zoo. Or maybe the handlers let the human hybrids in during the rain, and even though Jean-Jacques is hardly a handler, he wonders if he should do the same. Maybe he should’ve run outside and called Otabek in, insisting he sit by the window like a trapped housecat until the skies were blue again.
But if Jean-Jacques told Otabek where to go and what to do, he’d be no better than the zoo. Otabek’s independent. He’s smart and strong; he’ll be fine. Jean-Jacques tells himself that over and over and still has trouble sleeping. He keeps listening past the howling wind, expecting Otabek’s low voice to call out a demand for an umbrella.
Eventually, the noise makes him too thirsty. He pushes out of bed, shivering instantly at the cold that permeates his room, and scurries for the door. He makes a quick trip down to the kitchen sink, opening the window there too—the cheap linoleum can probably handle a few droplets. He downs a cup of water and shuffles back upstairs, leaving a slew of windows open in his wake, but still, no one calls him.
The lights are all off in the house, but the bedroom window illuminates his room just enough to make him pause when he returns. The window’s now as open as it can be, and the bucket’s toppled over, a wide river dragged between it and the bed. The blankets are all disheveled, and Jean-Jacques can see the damp patch in them. Two of his drawers are open—shirts and underwear—and a soggy pair of his old jeans and an even wetter turtleneck are discarded on the floor. Two fluffy, grey-black ears peek out from under the covers, the very tip of an enormous tail poking out the end. Jean-Jacques has to fight to contain his grin. If he smirks too much about offering salvation in the form of ‘silly human things,’ Otabek will probably leave again.
And even though Otabek’s soaking his bed through, that’s the last thing Jean-Jacques wants. He goes over to straighten out the bucket, even though it’s too late to stop the spillage, but at least he can shut the window. Then he’s stepping around the mini-lake and clambering onto the mattress, over the large lump that is his binturong. Otabek’s almost the same size as him—tall, muscular, and broad—and the tail and ears only add more bulk. But there’s still room for Jean-Jacques to squirm under the covers.
Curled up on his side, Otabek peaks one eye open. It pierces through the dark. Jean-Jacques can just barely make out that he’s wearing Jean-Jacques’ branded HBC shirt, and if Jean-Jacques had to guess, he’d bet Otabek was in his boxers too. The mere thought of it stretches his grin wider. He can’t help teasing, “You look good in that.”
Otabek just grunts. Jean-Jacques takes the hint and rolls over, partially so Otabek won’t see him smiling like a sap.
It isn’t long before Otabek latches onto him, spooning him from behind, and thoroughly soaking through his nightshirt. Otabek’s still plenty warm beneath it. Worth it. Jean-Jacques shuts his eyes and finally dares to sleep.