A/N: Challenge from rage-chan, which was:

Fuji is caught out in the rain without an umbrella, until Shiraishi comes along . . . with a bright multicolored one.

--

There are times when Fuji doesn't mind the rain. He rather likes the dripping wet feeling and the cold water against his skin. For one thing, he sometimes likes to play tennis in the rain, never mind the fact that it's dangerous and the fear of catching cold is always on everyone's mind except for his. The pros outweigh the cons and Fuji is too much of a genius to catch a cold anyway.

The rain is soft and gentle; there is a prickly feeling, but Fuji likes to think that it is reminder that he is alive.

He remembers playing tennis in the rain on more than one occasion; he remembers his shoes skidding along the baseline, his grip growing wet from the water. He can't tell if his sweat is really sweat or from the downpour. And he feels part of the world, that universal idea that rain can fall almost anywhere, and what he is experiencing now can be found in America, in Europe, in Australia.

Those are the good times.

The bad times are when he is standing by the bus-stop and there seems to be no end to the rain. The buses run late and, because of the weather, go slowly, so the times are all behind schedule. The time reads six twenty-two, and right now, Fuji is just getting a bit sick of the rain.

Cars and taxis fly past him. He cannot afford a car - nor can he drive, but that's beside the point - and as a student living month to month, he somehow cannot find it within him to fork up the money for taxi fare. So he stands in the rain and waits. And waits. And waits.

At this particular bus-stop, there is no underpass, and there isn't any sort of shelter nearby. Just two bus signs and a long cement road; for a long time, no cars pass by.

His hair is soaked wet, and the water is beginning to permeate through his jacket. His book bag is hung over one shoulder: he is keenly aware of the fact that his books will be completely wet by the time he gets home.

He wonders what it is taking so long. Time passes slowly and he forgets how long he's been waiting. Ten minutes? thirty minutes? an hour? It's all the same.

"What are you doing here?"

And Fuji turns and sees his savior—

Who turns out to be Shiraishi holding a multicolored umbrella that is blue and purple and pink and brown all mixed together, making for a detestable mixture of color. But that does not matter right now.

"I was waiting for the bus," he explains. "What are you doing here?"

"Funny," says Shiraishi, "I was coming to wait for the bus, too. Did you miss it?"

"It's late. About thirty-five minutes behind schedule. I shall have to write a letter to the company in complaint."

"It's raining. It's probably been held up." Leave it to Shiraishi to point out the logical reasoning behind it - it's not that Fuji doesn't see it himself; it's just that when Shiraishi says so, it seems to make more sense.

"Yeah, well, still. You have an umbrella. I don't."

"We can share," and Shiraishi holds the umbrella over the two of them. "You'll catch cold, won't you?"

"I won't. I'm never sick. Never."

"You might jinx yourself this time, you know. You know what they say."

"Do you honestly believe that?"

Shiraishi shrugs. "What do you want me to say?"

"Maybe something along the lines of the bus being here. Or maybe you have a car hidden around here somewhere so I can drive home and go to sleep."

"You mean, drive us home?"

He blinks. "Oh, yeah."

"And in the first place, you can't drive," Shiraishi duly points out.

"I can learn."

"Not on a rainy day."

A pause. "There's this movie," Fuji suddenly says. "I don't remember much about it. There's a guy and there's a girl. It's raining. The girl's looking for a cat, which she eventually finds. And she's happy and the guy's happy. And they kiss. And then it ends. It's a happy ending."

"What of it?" asks Shiraishi, perplexed.

"I don't know. Maybe I was suggesting that I sort of wanted something in compensation. You know, for waiting out here so long. And in the cold. It's so cold. And I didn't have an umbrella. Still don't, for that matter."

"You're the one who refused the umbrella this morning."

Fuji looks again at the detestable umbrella with its hideous combination of colors and poor decisions in aesthetic taste.

"Suppose you were kind-hearted and forgot about that."

"Suppose you just admitted that you forgot something and that you're human. Just like everyone else."

It reminds Fuji of that human feeling he gains from the rain; that feeling which somehow seems to elude him during sunny skies and perfect weather. It takes imperfection to create perfection. It seems philosophical, empathetic. It's the epiphany in the rain. It's like a song name.

"Kiss me," says Fuji, "just for the hell of it."

"In the rain?" Shiraishi says.

"Yeah. In the rain."

"Why?"

"Does everything need a reason? Does anything need a reason?" Fuji has a good persuading voice. Shiraishi is persuaded.

So he does kiss him, just as the bus arrives before them; the driver looks out and sees two young people offering a very public display of affection. He sighs a nostalgic sigh and then, before either of them notice, he drives off again.