It's a velvety smooth getaway, tucked tight as the rain drenches the outside world, covering rooftops in rivulets of water, flooding small holes, and isolating people from cars, from houses, from other people. Very few like to venture out in the downpour, trusty umbrellas in hand or raincoats: slick and wet from the lack of sun and the downpour of rain.
She curls up, toes: nice and warm. It's safe, where it's soft. Marinette doesn't think about the times when rain causes another to fall down, to sprain an ankle, to patch up a scratch, or at least to end up drenched enough and still in a hurry. She's content as she holds a notebook in hand, sketching a raincoat that seems perfect for a six year old, comfy and able to fight off the rain outside.
Each stroke of the pencil leaves a new line, a new edge, that slowly becomes something worthwhile to hold on to, something to just soothe wandering minds and thoughts. If only. She doesn't finish the phrase, too tired, too content and snuggly and warm, as the world goes on around her, but not closely enough to leave more than the gentle buzz and hum of traffic, of voices that delicately drift up, only to lull her further to sleep.
He likes the rain, but can't play in it. Every pitter, patter reminds him of how see-through white ends up, soaked and how muddy his shoes get, that hold in more water than boots would. Adrien thinks of how dress shoes creak, and pants that feel like a strain against his legs grow lax, how plants appear weighed down only to appear taller the next day. He thinks of the umbrella that his mother still cherishes, and how her heels get caught in mud, if she wears them.
Often rainboots keep her feet dry, though when it hasn't rained in a while, they sit on a shelf somewhere, abandoned until it rains again. Adrien thinks that it is sad that they only get touched once in a while, that same while when he can slip out to church or stand in front of a photographer or visit Chloe's. Chloe doesn't like the rain.
It seems unfair sometimes that he can't run in it or play around in the puddles that only come when the rain does. They are like whispers of friends, soft and there, until they have to go again. Adrien imagines sometimes that he is like a puddle, until he realizes that it is lonely to always have to go somewhere else.
He bounces on anxious toes as he counts down, silently, until the photographer leaves, content. Adrien knows the routine by now, and he wonders if the rain will still be there to play in later, just as he wonders if somehow he'll be able to play in it then too.