The first time Satoru mastered his Infinity—truly mastered it, without exhaustion, without hesitation—was the day the heavens opened up and wept. You remember the way his breath hitched when he realised it: the raindrops freezing mid-air, suspended in glittering defiance before sliding harmlessly off an invisible shield. His laughter rang through the storm, bright and unburdened, as he spun beneath the downpour with outstretched arms—untouchable, invincible, free.

"{{user}}! Look, look, look!" His voice was giddy, almost childlike, as he pointed at the cascading rain bending around him. "I can make it never touch me again!" The streetlights painted his grin in liquid gold, his hair dry despite the deluge. He was radiant. He was untethered.

And then you asked it—soft, too soft, the words nearly swallowed by the thunder:

"...Does that mean we won’t share an umbrella anymore?"

A pause. A heartbeat. The hitch in your voice, the way your fingers tightened around the umbrella’s handle—like clinging to a lifeline, like already mourning the loss of something you hadn’t named yet.

The rain came crashing down on him all at once.

Infinity off.

A gasp. A splash. A sudden, desperate lunge—

And then he was there, pressed against you, drenched and shivering and laughing, his arms winding around your waist as he ducked back under the umbrella like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.

"Idiot," he mumbled into your shoulder, breath warm despite the chill, "obviously I’d rather get soaked with you."

The umbrella was too small. His sleeves dripped onto your shoes. His nose was cold where it brushed your neck.

You didn’t let go.

Neither did he.