Disclaimer: I do not own No. 6

Just a Drabble

Raindrops trickled down waxy leaves and plunked onto the sidewalk like a barrage of lights all flickering on, an old ambiance that reminded Shion of the dim electric lights of the West district. Plop, plop, one by one, they left a wet shadow that bled across the pavement. The rain did not distinguish between concrete and greens, people or animals. It just showered down unabashed with no concern for what it may be washing away.

Shion liked to think that was why Nezumi came to him in the rain.

So he hummed along with a halcyon grace to the plunks of the wet beads, and closed wine eyes behind thick alabaster lashes. Step, by step, and step, he paced through the shower and inhaled the cool air, rich with the earth and an undertone of the summer honeysuckles. Sweet, and slightly sticky in the humidity, the air parted for him in thick sheets while the water just continued to fall.

Nezumi, Nezumi. Would he come back in time to see the fleeting carnations, or peek into chartreuse foxgloves? Would he miss the creeping vines of honeysuckles that he could gather into the folds of his sweater and pluck out that nectar lined string? The warm rainy days that filled his lung with a thrust of cool afternoon winds? Nezumi would miss the summer.

He lagged behind a usually place with a lazy smile, limbs to languid to shoo away the raised bumps chilling his skin. Shion was far too immersed in the hazy afternoon shower to mind his clothes permeated with rainwater and the murky glow of the sun struggling to emerge from the quilt of sluggish clouds. Because when he closed his eyes, he could match the scent of wet grass and earthy spices to a musty hideaway.

Because when he shut off his vision, he could almost imagine the way that Nezumi felt, like the pindrops on his skin were tiny kisses and butterfly light fingertips against his arms and back. The overwhelming scent of trees and flowers, with a touch of smoke and warm embers. Nezumi in all his whirlwind of a nature in full glory.

And he knew that Nezumi wouldn't be back to kiss the bluebells or pick bundles of hydrangeas with him, not that summer. With each rainfall, they grew a little bit older and Shion wondered if it was really any wiser when he was still the same child opening his window to a bellowing storm and letting the rain wash him over year after year. He was still the same as the standing shadow on a spring evening two years ago, two warm, breezy summers without Nezumi.

He would wait for him, though. And when he returned-in the winter, Shion always imagined, when the plants were dead and the bulbs of withered flowers burrowed until the spring; yes, he would come to him in the crisp bite of the winter air and icy, stale air and they would wait for the shy sprouts to unearth-he would show him the secretive snapdragons and how the droplets of rain shimmered like little crystals on bushels of Lilac. He would show Nezumi the rainy summer days and kiss wet skin with a esoteric smile, hidden with lips pressed against crumpled petals and gentle kisses.