“AND-” something cold splashes on his cheek. He startles. They both look up to see the darkened sky. How much time had passed? Perhaps just a few minutes, or maybe a couple of hours—he didn’t know. A bare line of liquid streaks down his face. His hand loosens its grip.

Even the sky weeps at their agony. They stand still, the overwhelming heat of the argument slowly cooling off them as the water slips over their faces, slowly increasing in tandem and magnitude until they were fully soaked through. It had begun to pour.

He is the first to shake out of their shared stupor. Dropping his hand from the other’s neck, he runs his other hand over his face and blows out a shaky sigh. He knows… that the wetness on his face is not just the freezing rain. The other’s head hangs low, his bangs sticking to his face making it practically impossible to discern his expression, but he has a feeling the other, as emotional as he was, would not be much different.

The other shivers in his light blouse. For once his own ‘terrible’ taste shields him from the rain—his coat covers him.

He feels his resolve shatter.

A moment later, he feels the tug of a coat clasped around him. He looks up in surprise. The other avoids his gaze.

He feels the urge to reach for him again but restrains himself. He coughs to catch his attention, unbeknowest that he already has it.

“We should head in, you’ll catch a cold.” he says gruffly, looking away, but clear enough for the other to hear.

He watches the other nod in his peripheral.

“We’ll talk later.” Dokja promises.

…