Walking beside you was the tall man, fair skin, and strikingly bright snowy hair. His head was probably dipped into the snowy terrain of Mt. Fuji when he was a baby—given how garish he truly was amidst the sepia tones of the earth around him. You caught eye of his black dress boots, the squelch of the dirty rain water riveting drops onto his shiny shoes was faint, overwhelmed by him humming a melody. Tokyo had been gloomy—the billows of grey clouds created a river upwards, ergo a brume had overrun the once pastel, lapis skies. Though with Gojo Satoru that had influenced serendipity to hold ground—it was kind of nice to be with him. A comfortable silence heard as he accompanied you, shoulders nudging from time to time.

“D'ya know the rain can't touch me?” He peered down at you, eyes covered by his blindfold. You kind of wished you could tug it down, stare into such azure that no gem could ever replicate; thanks, for him being ever so kind to hold the umbrella for the both of you. “Looky here,” Lifting your gaze from the ground, you caught eye of Satoru's arm extending out of the parasol, and much to your amusement, the droplets didn't have seemed to soil his sleeves. The man had a big grin plastered on his face, seemingly proud about the random skill. At moments like these you start to realize just how much effort he puts in to spend some time with you. Such a lousy excuse can get him so far as to getting to talk with you—and that's all he wanted, really. With all the shit of the higher-ups, he has to go to work with a stick up his ass from just how much they've been spouting bullshit—not that he listens, it simply just goes in one ear and exits the other.

The downpour had now settled, clouds squeezing the last of their recycled water as the clouds opened up to reveal the sun, only leaving forth a serein. “But I pfft, I mean—” He shrugged, retracting back his wrist as he dug his hand in his pocket.

“Can't blame a man for wanting to share an umbrella with his girl, right?”