He stood in the rain, feeling it wash over him in sheets, waiting for the dampness and chill to soak through his cloak adorned with clouds; feeling the rush of power coursing through him as the village –hisvilliagehisandhisangel'svillage- carried on beneath him.

He was God.

Konan came out from the shadows to stand beside him, a paper umbrella staving off the damp.

The heavy humidity in the atmosphere was a by-product of Pein's powers, and though water didn't bother her (though by all rights it should- paper never fared well under rain-) but it didn't, and she stood beside her Partner and Lover and God without worry that she would be swept away.

She rests her delicate hand on his shoulder, waits for the creeping wet to seep through her origami frail hands, and whispers into a metal-ringed ear that he should come inside; come back in from the lashing wind and the drumming resonance of his own power.

Slowly, Pein responds, feeling himself come alive under her touch, much warmer than his own body could ever be.

It's so lonely being God, and this body is dead, and the city below him is dead, and everything around them is a shrunken skeleton of what it once was.

But Konan's touch is warm, alive, and it is a glad reprieve from the aching hollowness that trembles inside of him in time with the thunder.

He unfolds, stands up next to her, and follows her into the base; leaving the rain and wind and sorrows outside.

They will keep for the long strings of tomorrows to come, but for this moment Pein will allow himself to become warm, and dry.