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Blackmore rotated his right shoulder, cracking his neck every so often. His patterned rain boots squeaked on the tile of the office hallway, the only steps echoed in the old, wide corridor of the Literature building. His black backpack with a raindrop pattern jingled with belongings and various student papers, a set of gray sneakers of a matching pattern thumping against the outside with every step. A large umbrella stuck out the partially opened backpack, the handle sticking out along with parts of the canopy. He pushed up his thin-rimmed glasses and moved some platinum blonde hair out of his face as he reached for the door, entering misty purple twilight.
Blackmore truly did not mind the late office hours to help the on-campus students more so after class, but as midterms approached, the sudden influx of students often left him in the office well into the night. Blackmore, extremely passionate about political science but lacking the confidence to end his office hours early, often worked until dusk. It may only be 7:30 pm, but as it was fall, the sunset much earlier, the nights much cooler. As a teaching assistant, it was his job to aid his professor’s students in a separate allotted time, and he did it with a ferocity similarly displayed by his paired professor Funny Valentine. They were truly a “power couple” Blackmore would sometimes mutter to himself, but he saw his superior as nothing more than a colleague.
Blackmore stepped out into the cool October air. A slight mist hit his face as he breathed it in, feeling himself melt into the breeze. He breathed in, lifting his arms to the sky, letting the precipitation hit him. As he breathed out, he felt his body slightly shimmer, as if he was one with the light rain. The hockey mask that appeared during times like this materialized in his open hand. He discovered this strange ability only a few weeks ago in a rainstorm as he melded into the rain. He has tried to keep this ability on the down low, but from other passersby, it seems like they do not notice or just don’t care.
He began taking his normal route back to his car: through the open-air corridor that lies between the Literature building and its overbearing neighbor the Biology labs, past the small green hills, down the stone path past the gym, through another large corridor that is the Social Sciences Building, and down a set of stairs to the parking lot. He had never taken this route when it was so dark, but thank the university for having a decent lamp structure to safely guide their night students.
All was going relatively quiet for the blonde, save his dragging steps and the typical night sounds of chaparral. Crickets chirped him on as the rustling of leaves calmed his nerves, the breeze adding to the ambiance. Blackmore hummed no tune in particular as he trudged on the uneven pavement.
Things got bizarre as he heard whistling on the other side of the corridor. He was not expecting to see a custodian at the halfway point of the corridor, then again he never took this route this late. He dove behind a pillar and peered around it to peek at the worker.
He was not facing him, but to the ground where he mopped. White kinky hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail donned with a pair of dark blue headphones. The features of the janitor read male, a sharp jawline leading to full peach lips on slightly tan skin. They were whistling along to the supposed music in the headphones, a tune Blackmore can recall hearing once on the radio but cannot recall. He watched his lips intently, eying the cracks of chapped lips, watching the movements, and being able to pair it to a Jamiroquai song.
Upon further investigation, the figure seemed tall, roughly Blackmore’s 6’3” build. He wore coveralls clearly worn for wear, and as he turned it was only zipped up to his bellybutton, an offwhite tank top sticking to a toned chest. At his hip were a few custodial essentials like a walkie-talkie and flashlight, but what stuck out was a W-shaped belt buckle, clearly custom and bizarre. He had a lean but muscular physique to him that revealed itself in the clung clothing.
Blackmore was hyper-fixated on this man. Something about him was attracting the TA, in more ways than one. Upon further investigation, he identified a man of similar characteristics drifting a golf cart a few months ago. Tagging along in the cart was a much larger man in a purple coat holding on to dear life next to him along with a much smaller woman with bright green hair in the back letting herself be tossed around the open vehicle. He remembered being told sorry by a soft, deep voice by the custodial driver as he narrowly missed running him over with it.
So that was the man who nearly slammed into me with his vehicle, Blackmore assessed, he’s kinda, beautiful.
Blackmore stopped himself in his thoughts. This was really not the time to daydream about the man currently blocking his path, and it would be even more awkward to face after staring him down for quite a while. Blackmore inhaled and exhaled, focusing his thoughts on getting to his car undetected and quickly before he becomes too tired to drive.
And on that sleepy note, he did not have time to react as his umbrella slipped out of his bag, clanking hard against the tile and rattling to a halt. Blackmore ducked out of view of the custodian as the latter straightened up and turned to the noise, only barely missing the umbrella being dragged out of view.
“Hello?” the man ‘yelled’, although it came out more like a loud whisper. He looked around towards Blackmore’s direction. He lifted an earmuff off as Blackmore quickly dragged the umbrella out of view.
“...The, the floor is still wet,” He stuttered, clumsily unhooking the sign from his mop bucket and placing it down hastily to appease the sudden intruder. Blackmore utilized the clean windows of the student offices to locate how far he was to notice he had not moved from his spot.
After what felt like an eternity the custodian shrugged and got back to work, turning away from Blackmore’s direction. He peered out again and tried to sneak back the way he came, only to feel a breeze turn into a gust as he snuck towards the pillar closest to the door. Blackmore tried to mask his gasp as he ducked again, this time feeling his weird ability act up again.
The custodian stood there as the wind picked up, howling now as he tipped over the soapy, dirty water of the mop bucket. But, the bucket did not tip over completely as a white hand caught it. A series of small clouds materialized around a white humanoid with pink eyes that seemingly absorbed the mixture, turning a dull gray. In a flash of lightning and a resounding boom, the figure shot up into a column of cumulonimbus that sparked pink with suds and rumbled like a bubble machine. The suds system extended outwards and rained down the mixture on the part of the corridor he had yet to finish.
The custodian did a whistle to the tune of Virtual Insanity , a song that Blackmore could finally pinpoint. After the remainder of the liquid rained down, the clouds became white again and swarmed the janitor. The top half of the humanoid materialized next to him, the legs melded into the human’s, which caused him to hover. And with that, he planted the mop firmly onto the wet tiles and began gliding above the floor only slightly, zooming across the floor to scrub it down. His movements were similar to that of a hockey player, pucks of suds occasionally sprouting as he smacked them with his mop, hitting the hard stains clean. The pucks collided with the wall in a burst of water and soap crystals, the man pumping his fists with every explosion.
Blackmore was utterly mesmerized. The elegance, the dedication to his job, the creative workflow, and the determination in his eyes made this man thoroughly attractive to him. But he knew he had to go; he’d been staring too long and any sort of contact now felt too stalker-ish, even considering his ex-assassin status.
The custodian halted himself with the mop and high fived the cloud humanoid, which in turn summoned a warm updraft to dry the floors. Blackmore awkwardly squeaked out of there, the boots adding more ambiance to the gust. The custodian turned to the noise and so did his ethereal companion, only to see the door swing as if someone ran out.
Blackmore decided to descend the somewhat steep dirt hill that ran below the corridor and scurried over to the parking lot, quickly entered his car, and drove off, turning up the A/C to cool the redness in the face.
More late-night office hours meant more probable encounters with that janitor. He noticed him a lot more when going through his daily routes, but he was a lot quieter than the nights where he went buck wild with his cloud friend. He stayed mostly in the corridor leading to the parking lot, but he would on occasion see him in the Political Science building cleaning up after discussions. The janitor would make a small salute to Blackmore in passing during the day, and out of fear that he knew he was being watched, he’d mutter a “‘scuse me” and quickly get out of view.
The nights were always fun to watch. Some nights his cloud friend set a fog out that the custodian would swirl like cotton candy, dispersing the mixture like a carny doing tricks at the county fair. Other nights he’d recreate whole dance numbers as he slid and squeaked across the floor as if he was Michael Jackson incarnate. Blackmore giggled at the antics of the man he was essentially stalking. He swore one night he glanced over a winked, but summed it up to the dance moves to ease the anxiety. And one especially bizarre night snails began appearing around the whole corridor: on windows, doors, the floor, even the very columns he hid behind. That night, he ran straight out in fear, avoiding the snails the best he could. Yet he did feel the urge to hide in a shell…
Finals were approaching and a demanding session left him out until 9 pm. Blackmore stretched and cracked his bones a bit as he approached the corridor he’d often see the custodian. At least that would make him feel better.
To his surprise, he still saw him working on the other end, yet a lot less open than he normally was. His back was completely turned and the coveralls were brought all the way up, collar popped even. The headphones were attached to the belt now, still plugged into the MP3 player.
Strange, Blackmore thought, Looks like he’s doin’ more mundane cleaning tonight. Probably ‘cause I’m a lot later than usual. Oh well, a man has to take a break some days.
He ducked behind his pillar near the door, the figure is unmoved. No music was coming out of anything on him, no MP3m humming, no headphone ambiance, nothing. Blackmore decided to get bolder. He skipped a few more pillars and ducked behind the intersections that led to a couple more rooms on each side.
Now that Blackmore was a lot closer, he noticed something off about the janitor. The pant cuffs of the coveralls were freely flowing rather than tucked into the work boots he normally wore. Instead, white feet were planted on the ground. As his gaze raised, he noticed that his waist was thinner, his chest wider, and, why is his hair suddenly gone? And this hat is new—
“Enjoying the show?” a deep voice whispered from behind Blackmore.
Out of instinct, he reached to his umbrella and pressed a button on the handle to reveal a blade on its tip. He turned quickly and pointed the sharp point at the intruder behind him, and he felt his heart sink and cheeks heat up.
At the end of the knife, only a couple of inches away, was the neck of the custodian he so much as admired. The coveralls were pulled down from his torso, tied at the waist. The offwhite tank top clung to his wet chest, most likely sweat from what Blackmore can see. He was breathing quite hard, which should have alerted Blackmore to his presence, but alas. As he traveled upwards to his face half-lidded eyes stared him down out of tiredness, sky blue eyes peaking from them. His lips were parted and chapped, a few scars outlining his face from scuffles unknown to Blackmore. His arm was above his head as he leaned against the wall.
“I’d assume you were the fellow watching over me the past few weeks?” The custodian muttered, the volume falling slightly under that whisper.
Blackmore could only stare, keeping the knife pointed at the other’s neck. He did scoot a little closer to hear the custodian better, making sure to keep the blade a couple of inches away.
“…Neat umbrella. Is it custom? I haven’t seen something so versatile since prison,” he chuckled. The janitor poked the blade playfully. Neither party flinched.
Blackmore continued to meet his gaze, breath unwavering.
“…Look I can tell you’re tense, but I know you not gonna attack me with that.” The custodian pointed to a camera across the way, slightly fogged up.
Blackmore turned to the camera and back and the man and slowly dropped the umbrella, keeping the blade out.
“I-I, well, um… so… I am terribly so~rry,” Blackmore stuttered.
“Eh, no worries. But you didn’t answer my question. Did you enjoy my little shows? I do ‘em even alone, but assume my stalker would’ve enjoyed them too,” he chuckles again. He shimmied his shoulders a bit.
Blackmore could only look down at the other’s feet, too embarrassed to speak and too shocked to move.
The custodian took note of Blackmore’s shyness and stood up straight, putting his arm down. He stepped forward and extended a hand, causing Blackmore to flinch.
“I go by a lot of names, but I prefer Weather,” he smiled, moving his hand a bit to gesture a handshake.
Blackmore looked at Weather’s hand and glanced at his face for a brief moment, only to make eye contact with the hand again and shook it.
“B-Blackmore, teaching assistant of Funny Valentine,” he murmured shyly, avoiding eye contact. He kept a grip on Weather’s hand, feeling a callus on impact. These were the rough hands of a solid worker, Blackmore appreciated, slightly squeezing the hand.
“...you have quite a peculiar way of cleaning Mr. Weather.” He meets eyes with the custodian, “I have never seen someone summon a friend to aid in such a task. I mean, it’s one to ask for help and another to conjure up the personification of a rainstorm to do your bidding.”
Weather’s eyes slightly opened in shock at the “friend” comment. His back straightened and he leaned closer to Blackmore, causing the latter to blush harder.
“Wait, you can see my guy?” Weather let go of Blackmore’s hand and puts it to his chin.
“Y-you’re guy?”
On queue, the figure turned to the duo and floated towards them, dropping its belongings next to its user. Like before, it is roughly the same build as Weather save the smaller waist and wider chest. It was an off-white with glaring pink eyes, spikes and flatted protrusions lining its face and body. Clouds surround the figure as it hovers with a breeze. It sticks its hand out, the wind blowing in Blackmore’s direction as to greet itself.
“His name is Weather Report, like me. I find it more comfortable that way,” the custodian claims, pocketing his hands.
Blackmore glances at its hand and the Stand several times before taking its hand hesitantly. Surprisingly, his hand did not pass through Report, instead being met by a cold, smooth hand. He shook it and the stand tilted its head and smiled? with its eyes.
“What’s yours?” Weather pipes.
“H-huh?”
“Your Stand? Or at least, some supernatural ability to be able to see him.”
“Oh, well, I-uh, it’s not as interesting as yours is but,” Blackmore stammers, trying to summon his mask in his hand. “It’s more of a cosmetic than anything, but only I can seem to see or use it.”
Weather places a hand on his chin and hums, leaning closer.
“What does it do?” Weather murmurs.
“Well.” Blackmore puts on the mask. “I feel like I become one with mist and rain with it sometimes.”
“Hmm.” Weather Report hovers over Blackmore and turns into a cloud, raining softly on the TA.
Blackmore jumps at the sudden storm but then feels shimmery again. His form melds in the rain again, and as he steps away he rises in the air a bit, a platform forming under his feet.
“Manipulate raindrops,” Weather whispers.
“Pardon?”
“You can manipulate precipitation, kinda situational, but neat nonetheless,” he shrugs. “So many possibilities with it. I can only control weather phenomena that exist. Don’t think water platforming is a thing yet,” he giggled.
Ah, so that is why he is called Weather.
The stand stops the rain, and as it halts the platform destabilizes and he dropped the few inches he hovers, almost slipping. Before his butt hit the tile, Weather grabbed his arm and held him in a half-slip, hoisting up the TA and wrapping his other arm around his torso. Blackmore felt hotter and hid his face in his shoulder. He felt exposed and the other man’s lack of strong expressions was not helping his case. Blackmore thought he was good at reading faces, but this man was a blank space.
After standing the man up away from the puddle, Weather let go and backed away into the pile his stand dropped. After collecting a few things and placing them on his own belt, he turned back to Blackmore.
“Need me to walk you to your car? It’s the least I can do even if you do this route solo anyways,” Weather offers.
“S-sure.”
The pair’s steps echo as they enter the open lot, the only sounds the running gutters and nearby traffic. After they reach the TA’s car, Blackmore gets in, but not before Weather stops the door and leans in.
“See you around? I hope you attend more of my little shows. And I promise to not clip you with my cart again,“ Weather snarked, belting out a silent laugh.
“Yeah, I hope so too. On both accounts,” Blackmore giggled for the first time.
Weather saluted him and walked away, re-entering the corridor and out of Blackmore sight. Blackmore put his head in his hands and pressed against the wheel.
He knew.