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Dew-like raindrops cling to the umbrella. Light drizzle embrace the city blithely, an unfeeling mistress in the covers of the night. The moon takes up a temporary retirement under the siege of rain clouds against the stars and the skies. Accompanying a bevy of pedestrians with bowed heads under the cover of their umbrellas, comes the steady clicks of shoes against wet pavement, pleasant smell of water finally making their way home to the parched earth wafting up.
It’s the height of summer.
Doumeki doesn’t look troubled by the sudden flash of summer rain. He doesn’t look like he’s welcomed a drop of sweat on his forehead or his nape, as he crossed the distance from his wedding’s reception to the shop, a full city’s breadth separating the two places. He doesn’t look bothered at all.
Watanuki exhales as he surveys the suit that clings to the width of those sturdy shoulders, at the white shirt that is steadily betraying the musculature born of years of discipline, good genetics, constant archery practice and nutritious food. The smoke from the kiseru curls into the air like gray serpents, nine heads spreading out and unable to be snuffed out fully, blending into the mist of the rainy night. Watanuki’s cheek rests against the upturned palm of his hand, the mahogany lining the window untouched by raindrops, the knobs of his wrist cold even without the helplessness of his yukata against the cooler air.
Doumeki doesn’t look troubled, always implacable, until he spots Watanuki lazily smoking by the windowside, eyes half-lidded and legs half-curled against silk cushions arranged like a sultan’s bed under him.
“You will catch a cold,” Doumeki says, stern and silent, even though there’s only solitude that accompanies them now. With brisk steps, he approaches Watanuki and curls his suit jacket over thin shoulders, effectively sharing his body warmth.
And it is warm. Watanuki shifts his body and tilts his head until his cheek rests against the fabric of the suit jacket instead.
“This is of good quality,” he murmurs, a hint of marvel as to how it remained warm and dry despite Doumeki’s trip. “I didn’t think you had enough of a good taste, for that.”
Doumeki shrugs. There is a good chance that the suit jacket was bought by his parents, happy for their son’s wedding day and unhappy about everything else. Once, and only once, Watanuki had asked him, if he was sure about this. Not about Kohane—but about this. Once and only once. They are both stubborn and would never be convinced otherwise. Watanuki has an eternity ahead of him, while Doumeki does not. It is easy to let it go with just one argument, one finality.
Still.
Watanuki smiles around his pipe, assesses Doumeki who has pulled out a cushion from underneath his legs. Watanuki doesn’t need any magic to expect this of Doumeki; he considers it equivalent enough of an exchange. One suit jacket warmed by Doumeki’s body heat, in exchange for one cushion warmed by Watanuki’s own.
“Rain during a wedding, huh.”
“It is within the forecasts.”
“It would have been a good start to a marriage,” Watanuki says mildly.
His gaze slices into Doumeki, would have cut a lesser man in half. For his part, Doumeki’s blank fish-eyed stare doesn’t really falter. He has the nerve the nudge an exposed knee using the back of his knuckles, an unspoken where’s my sake? For his part, Watanuki’s already sent for a particularly flavorful bottle. Equivalent exchange – wine that’s been fermented for years, heady and delicious, in exchange for spending one’s wedding night with someone he’s known for years, fermentation notwithstanding.
Doumeki doesn’t falter, doesn’t even blush. “We have calculated when would be a good date to start conceiving.”
“A shameless rascal,” Watanuki chides and blows smoke into Doumeki’s direction, wanting to see his nose twitch or his eyes water. Doumeki does neither, so Watanuki breathes out a dishonest, “Kohane-chan is in for a life of suffering with you.”
“They will be born on April 1st.”
Watanuki pauses. Licks his lips. After the silence stretches enough, string drawn taut, he exhales again.
“…I see.”
Doumeki inclines his head.
The sake arrives.
Watanuki pours it to Doumeki’s cup first, clear liquid against porcelain with sakura patterns. Fleeting and ephemeral. Doumeki stares at it, like Watanuki himself is in his cup, before drinking it in one go.
“Congratulations, Doumeki.”
Doumeki dips a finger on the sake cup, traces a droplet that clings to the bottom part, to where the sakura petals are. Watanuki stays silent, doesn’t say anything about how this is surely an indecent way of enjoying the drink. Doumeki raises that finger and paints Watanuki’s lips in that same transparent color.
“Thank you.”
Watanuki’s laughter echoes in the backyard, the steady downpour drowning out everything else.