Rain
by Jennifer Darknight
The downside to rain was that it made everything seem…well…damp. It made the bones of old folks start to cramp, it made the roofs of the shitty apartments down the road start to leak, and it made the hearts of the lonely start to drop, down into their feet as their bile and tears start to come out their eyes and mouth.
And for them, it was sort of true.
The roof was leaking at least.
Edward had told Alfons that they should have reshingled the roof; but it was dry season, so Alfons hadn't anticipated any more rainfall for another couple of weeks. But his lack of good judgment instead caused small tin buckets to line their floors, catching the droplets as they fell and filling them almost to the brim. It was almost like clockwork—every five minutes, they'd dump out a bucket, replacing it with an empty one before the mess on the floor got too great.
Luckily the storm was starting to go from horrendous downpour to light drizzle, and they had to do their bucket runs every thirty minutes or so, instead of five.
Thank God for small favors, as Alfons would say.
Though in the end, Edward really wasn't in the mood to say anything at all.
What did he do instead? Oh, the usual: sitting on the couch and moping, one knee up and one leg dangling, head angled to stare out the window while his eyes glazed over and his hair started to fall out of its usual ponytail.
The 'Edward introspect pose', as Alfons had started to call it.
The 'I want to be left the hell alone pose', as Edward's body language had always called it.
Of course, there was only so long that Edward could be 'left the hell alone' before it annoyed the rest of the people around him. If it hadn't been for Alfons's insistence to include Edward in just about every workplace discussion he could possibly get in, the man might not have opened his mouth at all, retreating in memories that the Aryan wasn't even sure were real.
Then again, it was said that there was a fine line between genius and insanity.
Just like there was a fine line between quiet and antisocial.
But whenever Alfons sat down beside him and let his fingers go featherlight over Edward's own, somehow he didn't flinch. He would just grab and hang on, holding onto his hand for dear life, as if that was the only thing holding him down to wherever he was sitting and preventing him from getting sucked in by whatever entity or being chased him in those nightmares of his. He wouldn't smile. Wouldn't blink. He'd just hang on, flesh lacing through flesh and pulse pumping and a blush spreading across his cheeks that he acted as if Alfons couldn't see.
So, sighing, Alfons sat down next to him, and put his hand on his.
And Edward didn't do anything but grab on.
And then, the rain was forgotten.