Cold, cold rain.
That's why you hate the winter. And as you dash through the sheets of freezing water pouring from the heavens you almost slip and fall.
The wet air bites at your nose and burns your lungs and your feet are freezing inside your shoes that really aren't even suited for running or wet weather anyway. Your jacket is soaked and you're pretty sure your bones are too; wet hair is plastered to your forehead and you angrily push the straggling strands out of your eyes as you set your sights on the nearest haven- meaning, nearest dry place.
You wonder why the campus is so large yet lacking in verandahs and shaded porches now and you make a three hundred and sixty degree turn in desperation (also a mental note to inform Millay of this problem). Your teeth chatter and dance and the muscles in your legs burn because running has never been your thing, or anything that required physical exertion, really, and your brain is too frozen to do anything except search for a respite from this bleak, dark-gray-drenched landscape.
Then you see him.
He calls your name in relief and looks more and more worried as he approaches, no doubt due to your dripping condition. You watch him run, all lithe and confident over the cemented pathway and briefly think of the word angelic when you see the item in his hand. Over the same outfit as yours (except his is dry) he holds an umbrella. You make a lousy effort to reach him and his temporary comfort of plastic and when you do you try to explain through patter of raindrops and chatter of teeth. He shuts you up and hands the umbrella to you, which you take while he is divesting himself of his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. You protest, but not too much because it's warm from his wearing it and smells sort of like fabric softener and home.
By the time you two get back it's completely dark and you can no longer see your white puffed breathing mixed with his, but before you run to take surely the hottest shower of your life and get a change of clothes, you turn and say thank you a little stiffly, a little hesitantly, giving him back his jacket because yours is only a little more than damp now.
He puts it back on in silence and it's as if the words 'you're welcome' are about to spring to his mouth, but he doesn't say them, instead saying your name.
The syllables tremble on the air, wavering and a little unsure, like a child's first paper plane on its maiden flight.
"Lelouch?"
You have one hand on the door but you look back and put a hesitant smile on your face for him, asking him lightly if anything is wrong because instinct tells you that there's something that needs to be said here, something that you can't quite put a finger on.
He pauses.
"Never mind."
And he turns on his muddy heel, squeaking down the hallway until the soles of his shoes dry out and you can no longer hear his footsteps. You attempt to puzzle out his actions, but then the involuntary shivering of your limbs compels you to open the damn door already and seek your warm and familiar quarters.
But even after you've bathed, changed, and you've put Nunnally to bed, you can't help but wonder, lying on your back with your arms crossed behind your head and staring at the ceiling:
..maybe it's a different warmth you're seeking.
The winter rain pounds away heedlessly at your window, steady and incessant.