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Everyone and their mother knows that Kagura doesn’t like rain. And that’s okay - she doesn’t, she shouldn’t. Because there were always clouds covering Rakuyo’s skies. Because there were drops falling against her skin when her brother left, when her father lost an arm, during her mother’s funeral–
And it’s shitty. Not that she had to go through all of that (because Kamui doesn’t have the right to think about how unjust it seems, when he would do it again if given the chance), but the fact that she couldn’t take Kouka into the sun once last time, that she had to go home and dry her hair for herself when he wasn’t there for her. That she was, for a while, utterly alone in a world that was only antagonistic to her.
But the point is…The point is that most planets don’t have the atmospheric requirements necessary for rain to even exist. And he got used to that. Used to the dry air that made his old life seem very far away.
He has the right to hate it, too. Because he’s a child of Rakuyo, and they all learned how the cold of the water can get into your skin, your bones, your very soul with enough time. They’re soaked to their core, freezing in their own loneliness. That’s how their home planet is.
Still, he doesn’t say anything. Because it would be unfitting of who he is, and because weakness feels like venom on his tongue whenever he tries to word it. And Kamui has mastered the art of hiding his own emotions (even if, truth be told, their range is not that wide to start with), so it’s easy for him to behave as if the climate doesn’t bother him.
It rains too much on Earth.
There’s a whole season for it. There’s a name for it. Independence Day , Kagura says. Rakuyo didn’t need one, because it was an integral part of its everyday life.
Kamui never uses his umbrella when it rains. There’s no need for it, when he doesn’t mind stepping into Kagura’s house dripping wet. Because then he can say that she should get used to cleaning since she wants to stay in this dump of a planet. Because then she can try to kick him and he can block it and they can brawl like teenagers again, and they don’t have to talk about the metaphorical elephant looking straight at them in the room.
Nobume doesn’t give him that small mercy, because she’s a bitch who has never known kindness. Samurai excel at meddling into other’s business.
She was bound to notice at some point. Kamui is aware that there are small signs, and she’s nothing but perceptive. An assassin has to be, to stay alive. She says it’s a trait that a politician also needs, and she’s not - but she stays alert behind that princess, waiting like the good guard dog she is.
He tries to stay away from her during the rainy season. Away from Earth, even. But there’s still - something , whenever a storm catches him unaware. He can't run from something as inevitable as climate forever. And he sits in her engawa , watching as the droplets fall onto her garden. Plop, plop, plop.
Disgusting little things.
“Kamui,” Nobume calls, voice flat.
Kamui doesn’t turn, because there’s no malice coming off her, no killing instinct at all. He trusts she would never stab him in the back, not because she’s scared of him but because she - cares for him, in her own way. Her life would probably be duller without Kamui in it, he thinks. It’s a strange kind of feeling, the one that pools into his stomach at the thought.
“Nobume,” he acknowledges, fingers tapping into the wood under his hands, breaking the rhythm of the raindrops.
She said it to him once. Why she noticed, that is. Rain, she says, makes his movements heavier, as if it was weighing down on him. His responses are slower, the cadence of his voice deeper, the curve of his neck more pronounced as he tilts his head for her, his kisses last more, his hands remain on her skin longer.
He would tease her about how observant she is when it comes to him, but he’s on Earth during monsoon season. Pot, meet kettle.
“Are you planning on staying there the whole day?” she asks.
Kamui hums, and he smiles. The gesture comes naturally, practiced. It’s still pointless when he’s not looking at her.
“Why? Do you want me to be somewhere else? Should I go visit my little sister?”
Nobume clicks her tongue, but she takes the few steps that are between them. That’s when the smoke hits him, and Kamui takes a deep breath.
She uses a kiseru . He hasn't told her that his mother used to do it, too, least she talks again about his supposed Oedipus Complex. He doesn’t even know what that is.
“She would kick you through the ceiling if you go bother her again,” Nobume says, matter-of-factly, as she sits by his side. She doesn’t kneel. Instead, her feet are hanging from the engawa , kicking idly under the water. The droplets hit the fabric of her thighs, creating wet spots here and there. She doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“How little confidence!” Kamui sing songs. “I would break her leg before that~”
And then, ploff , he’s letting himself fall to the side until his head collides against the softness of her lap. The gesture is too sudden to be called tender, but the way her hand goes to tangle into his hair can’t be called anything but.
“I’d thought you’d have learned your lesson by now,” she says. She’s stronger than you hangs between them, and Kamui ignores it in favor of pulling at the hem of her thighs and letting the fabric go, smiling at the light slap it gives.
Nobume pulls at his braid in reatilation, and he has the audacity to chuckle.
“I thought you had paperwork to do?”
Kamui doesn’t want her to go, not really. The mocking question is just part of his role, of this little play they are starring in. He’s looking at her from below, at the smoothness of her neck, the curve of her jaw, the old scar just below her left ear. She takes a bit to look back at him, and when she does it’s just to let out a mouthful of smoke against his face.
Kamui’s lips turn upwards, and he revels in the smell. It brings memories of a childhood he never wanted to remember in the first place, and if he wasn’t so spiteful he might admit it feels comforting.
“You looked like a wet dog out here,” Nobume answers. One long strand of dark hair tickles against Kamui’s cheek, and he raises a hand to put it behind her ear. Did I? he thinks.
“Oh?” Kamui says instead, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, that Nobume cares for him. As if they haven’t been together for a long while now.
He lets his hand fall against his own stomach, letting the splitter splatter of the rain drown in the warmth of his body under him.
“You didn’t have to worry,” he says, slightly mocking. Because he’s sure she didn’t, not really. Nobume worries about very little, but still she cares about a lot. Kamui turns in his place then, until his face is hiding against her stomach, and he can feel the feather light touch of her fingers against his neck. “It’s not like I’m feeling cold.”