Chapter Text
He’s drenched in seconds.
It’s August in Flatbush and the humidity dogs his steps. And it’s all a mistake. The leather pants, the black crop top, the eyeliner he sweats, and the umbrella hanging uselessly in his doorway. And he prays for luck, for canopy, and challenges that luck with every dauntless errand. And, inevitably, the clouds call uncle.
There’s a catch of dahlias in his fist as the sky cracks open like a pinata. The petals are drooping, bending in supplication when quite suddenly, he’s covered. It’s a startle, a blink, and then the rain is pounding a teal blue umbrella and a man in a tartan suit is saying, “Those are lovely.”
Ed loses a bit of air when that stranger smiles, when his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Yeah, there uh -” for his mum, but the words evaporate. “Thanks, mate.”
A gall comes down between the buildings and Ed's reaching without thinking, stepping closer. His hand folds about the stranger’s, steadies the umbrella through the worst of it. This close there are freckles and a fine swoop of golden hair. “Love a summer storm,” the man says. Thunder tags on an exclamation point. “Always so dramatic.”
Ed nods. “End of times.”
“Here. For your face.” And then there’s a handkerchief between them, red and emblazoned at the corner with SB. The kindness of the gesture blooms before Ed's realizing -
The eyeliner. Fuck. It must be running down his cheeks by now. He hesitates, realizes he’s still holding this man's hand and then accepts it. He wipes his brow, his cheeks, his neck. There's a gaze on him, weighted but quiet. Old-fashioned, Ed thinks, to carry around a personalized handkerchief. Hell, to even offer a stranger reprieve from a storm. “This will pass in a minute.”
“Yeah?” Ed asks, he quirks his lip, “you a weatherman?”
There’s a pink tinge on SB's cheeks when he says, “We prefer meteorologist.”
“Shit! Really?” And suddenly he’s chuckling, because what are the odds. Caught in a rainstorm with a weatherman that blushes like a sunset. “How’s it feel being wrong all the time?”
“Fighting words from a man without an umbrella.”
Damn if that doesn’t make Ed’s breath catch, make him hook onto this man’s gaze, and then dissolve them both into giggles. “Hee - rude.”
The rain sluices off the umbrella and the world distorts for it. It's a bleed of colors. Red stoplights sifting over into yellows then greens, the florist's window dripping petals, and all of it existing beyond this bubble.
“Just,” a tongue darts over a fine pair of lips, “trust me. It will be over soon.”
And Ed’s sweating, his shirt is suckered to his skin, and damn it all because he doesn’t care. Let it rain. Let this man be wrong. He's chasing lightning.
He holds out his hand. “I’m Ed.”
“Stede.”