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Perhaps Shotaro never understood the foundations of “family.” It has become foreign to him, an underlying itch that he cannot reach. He’d once gotten close to it, however, enough to taste warm meals from the stove and hugs that felt woolen. He doesn’t often profess what occurred in his past, nor does he delve deep into that sudden, tearful goodbye. He remembers it far too well, and there was just no need to explain further, other than the fact that his mother and father were both kind to him. He had learned the first meanings of growth from it, to better himself and his torment, to embrace the city as his family instead... He believes it so, because he hasn’t gotten very far to experience the sensation again, even under the arm of his aunt, and he finds that urns and gravestones always feel colder in his embrace.
His room feels smaller each passing day. Every night is awoken by tears staining his pillow when he'd believed he'd gotten better at containing them, and the only place where he truly belongs is by him. He'll become a proper adult to make up for his hardships, or to avoid thinking of them entirely... It's where he must belong.
The alarm clock wakes him up from his bleary-eyed dreams. Quietly through the dark, his arm reaches behind him to pinpoint where the sound began. The pads of his fingertips became laced with dust as they scraped across the shelf. After missing a few times, he finally switches off the incessant ringing, and his eyes flutter in the dark to the sound of pelting rain taking its place. All day it’s been raining, and all day it’s been equally as cold. Winter was generally unforgiving and silent– dull, for a better choice of words. A slow loll of his head towards the coat-rack curves a frown on his lips, narrowing his eyes doesn’t make the image any less clear.
A long white coat and a felt fedora remain missing. The chief hasn’t come back... This job appeared to be difficult even for someone like him.
“Dammit…” he hushes through the dark, balling white bed sheets between trembling knuckles. That itch grows in volume into something pus-filled; a discomfort he finds when he eventually pins his focus on the boss’s desk and sees three smiling faces inlaid in a picture frame. It was nothing special, simply ornate and wooden, yet felt like a jewel in the night he couldn’t pry his eyes off of. None of those inside the photograph has his features. He doesn’t smile as the girl in his arms does… he’s not meant to be in this picture, and refuses to look at the dark reflective space any longer than this. Flipping it over meant he’d eventually forget about it, and he doesn’t exactly prefer to wander home alone in the cold rain if he was caught tampering with something valuable. He feels like an abscessed wound, haphazardly taken care of.
Thus, the boy heaves a soft sigh through his nose, exhaling deeply into a worn-out pillow into a loud groan, until he comes up for air with deeper breaths into his emptied lungs. The pattering has been getting to him and leaves him restlessly incompetent, and trying to busy himself by counting the cracks in the ceiling was utterly useless. Additionally, opening the curtains and peering outside was also in vain; nothing but a pitch-black wilderness. His hand comes to card back his unruly brown bangs, attempting to relieve his eyes from the stragglers which prickle between his lashes. He’ll get sick in this rain; he’d come home in half the time if the boss chose to acknowledge him! Even more so when the rack of umbrellas hasn’t lost a single one. It was just beyond infuriating, facing this sort of grievousness all on his lonesome. Like he’d been wrung out and dry countless times.
What made him ache the most, however, was the darkness. His foot flicks up periodically because of the discomfort. The office felt particularly barren this time of night, but the cabin felt just as invasively unreal. Everything had been placed neatly; a staged ruse for clientele to feel at ease, a showroom with a missing host. Here, he is in a bed far bigger than his body, scented like faint cologne and smoke staining unwashed comforters… an intruder playing Goldilocks. He’s not in his aunt’s house, but in a dream he didn’t want to wake from. Shotaro begins preparing to sit up at the thought, raising his haggard body as if he were on strings, and rubs the sleep from his crusted eyes. Regarding the dip of the mattress through a sidelong glance, a creeping discomfort makes its way up his spine. No matter how many times he rolls out the knots, the bittersweet ache persists. “... He’s going to be late again.” A mutter left unheard by anyone else.
No one could hear him, nor did his voice echo against the wooden walls. The boy, in his third year of high school, had begun to rot from the inside out. Sokichi had invited him into his cabin a few times, as it was a nearby and convenient location for a stakeout. This was no exception, but each finite lead of hope to be useful became shunned in the dark… Chained like a pet begging for scraps and for a home away from winter’s rain. And he begins to wonder– why am I even here?
“How long was I asleep…?” Bed springs creak when his lithe body shifts, stretching out his limbs that experience the last spurts of growing pains. It’s past eleven when he hears the high-key jingling of keys into the dilapidated lock. He once more naturally resists reaching over to turn the photo away from his line of sight and gets up to make a pot of coffee with leaded steps.
The draft that comes in through the door is nothing but dastardly, sending goosebumps all across his skin. Lightning casts a darkened shadow over the man standing at the entryway; a large build begins to take off his shoes in slow movements. It’s terrifying, so enthralling, it stuns the poor boy into place, his body stilted even as he gulps down dryly. He’s become a fawn under headlights, roadkill by a gaze that pierces him even when the lights aren’t on.
“Shotaro,” the man calls out from the darkness, “It’s burnt.”
“Huh?” Confusion was strewn across his face. His nose doesn’t catch the distinct trace of smoke until it’s been pointed out. A sudden glance at the pan makes him stagger on his feet and wide-eyed– it’s been burned to ash! Gone to hell and back! “Ack–!!” The boy panics while shutting off the personal burner and scrambles to bring the pitch-black beans up to the overhead fan, almost tripping over his feet in the process, just before the smoke detector could go off. An attempt to create a 'darker roast' from already roasted beans became another failed experiment. Another pot has been burned as he’s fanning away the smoke with frantic sweeping motions of his hand, and grimacing at his own incompetence… the smell most of all.
“You’ve got some ways to go.” Sokichi remarks, matter-of-fact, a twitch of a smirk lits at the corner of his mouth. There’s a subtle click of the switch, which makes the light bulb above flicker twice before going fully opaque. His mentor had been drenched by the rain, but there was no sign of any chill wracking his body. No trembling fingers. His nose isn’t dusted with pink. He’s a man who appears to command the weather to coexist alongside him. With his white coat shrugged off his shoulders, he saunters his weary body to the coat-rack. The usual hanger at the usual hook awaits the garment, and places his felt-fedora on the hook above it in turn, not without one last brush-off of his white vest. Shotaro’s pouting mellowed at the habitual sight, and goes back to set the pan down on the counter in defeat. After cooling it down with a fan, grinding it, and lastly sets it into a drip filter, the brew was complete. Two mugs were made, and Sokichi took his while unbuttoning his vest with diligent fingers. Back in the kitchen, Shotaro's arms cross over each other against the countertop, and he rests his squished cheek against his right bicep with a detached glint in his eyes.
“It’s oughta be better than yours, though.” Shotaro’s impish grumbles don’t go unheard as he takes a seat near the entrance, his legs crossed and kicking upwards in dissatisfaction. They both take a sip simultaneously... Gross.
“Shut up.” A lighthearted reply that doesn't bite deep.
The boy huffs out a laugh at the remark. Because he's naturally restless, he stands up once more. Strolling around the living room felt like a chore; keeping busy was equally taxing. A curious glimpse upstairs was followed by footfalls leading to the second floor. While perusing Sokichi’s various keepsakes, he comes across the figure of a bear from the corner of his eye… Something fitting for a cabin, but unusual for the chief to have in his possession. Delicate fingers pick up the wooden bear, which had seen better days; dust covered the surface, which made its brown fur look ashen. Perking his ear up to it and rattling it a few times did nothing for his curiosity. Nothing’s inside, even if he could hear some kind of door rattling against the surface. Giving up, he makes his way back downstairs with quick steps, leaving the figure right where he’d last found it.
“While you’re here, focus on your classes.” Sokichi’s voice becomes distant as he stands up. With his empty mug in hand, he strolls over to the kitchenette and washes it inside the small metal sink. It tasted terrible, but because Shotaro put effort into this brew… He couldn’t let it go to waste. He walks back over to the coffee drip and the excess beans, placing all his focus on fixing up the kid’s bad batch. “I didn’t tell you to bring your books as empty weight. And I’d prefer if you didn’t burn down the place while I’m gone.”
A pit of despair makes itself well known in his stomach. Shotaro’s grades and overall attendance in his classes have been abysmal. The times when both of them would meet is where he’d be skipping lectures and avoiding thinking about the stack of paperwork he’d eventually come to face. Shotaro frowns and quietly makes his way back to his seat again at the table. Another setback leaves him hunched over and pulling his knees to his chest. “Got it…” Even his arbitrary response feels forced, but Sokichi pays no mind. They both are aware of their agreement.
The burner’s clicking stops when the flame ignites again, and the aroma of dark-roast coffee spreads about– the scent of an adult. With ‘ways to go,’ the boy sets his mug down on the coaster and turns his ear to the shaking of beans inside the sifter. After cooling them down and grinding them finely, the roast was complete… Though Shotaro knew it wouldn’t taste all that great, anyway. It’s better to keep the whole bean intact rather than grinding everything all at once, he knew that one by far. But he doesn’t comment on it, and instead flits his gaze to his twiddling fingers upon his lap.
“Your daughter…” Shotaro began, his lips parting from the rim of his mug.
“What about her?”
“What’s her name again?”
“... Akiko.”
“Akiko… chan.” Shotaro sounds out the name slowly, mouthing it like candy to fix the last name in place. ‘Narumi Akiko’ had a good ring to it. Suddenly, Shotaro swallows hard and considers the alternative route, and it pits a weighted rock in his stomach; he can't seem to cough up. Narumi Shotaro, however, sounded strange.
“She’s five years younger than you.” Despite Shotaro’s expression stiffening, Sokichi has been amused. Amused but not unkind.
“Do you see her often?” He’d hit a soft spot for the detective, watching as his eyebrows crinkle and his gaze hardens. He attempts to backtrack at his words, but it’s too late.
“No.” Sokichi admits with an exhale and sets his mug down on the coaster a tad harder than he’d originally intended.
“When was the last time you saw her–”
“Shotaro. No more questions.” The snap in his voice makes the boy shrink into himself for a millisecond. And to think, he’d wanted to know more than what’s surface-level. He shifts his sullen eyes to the ground.
“... Sorry. My bad, chief.” His words peter out in utter defeat. His jaw clenches when he returns to a mug that was once hot to the touch, but has been significantly cooled down to nothing. Bringing it to his mouth, however, the taste remained horrid. He refuses to spit it out in a fine mist all over the coffee table before he could face any sort of fury, and gulps it all down instead. Shaking his head, all canine-esque leads his expression souring even more. Any kind of milk or sugar would do, but he’s gone from four cubes to three, and opposes letting his progress go back to square one. Sokichi, on the other hand, goes back to drinking it without a single care. His taste buds must be decimated. Silence once again began, despite the gentle rapping of his nails back on the mug’s surface.
“Say. You told me valuable information. Information that I’ll carry with me throughout my whole life. ‘Eighty percent of a man’s job is being decisive. The rest is just gravy.’ Right? My choice is to stay with you.”
“It won’t do you any good, kid.” A curt response, “You need to focus on yourself.”
“Don’t you feel lonely? Not seeing your daughter?” His voice trails alongside his gaze… wrapped around his left ring finger, it carries an indented shadow. “Your wife, even?”
“...”
“I’m cold. I don’t wanna go home just yet.”
“Watch the words you’re saying, Shotaro. Anyone will take those kinds of words as an invitation.” As if he saw right through his sappy feelings.
Maybe I want it to be.
“I’d like to be family to you as well. I’ve always thought you’re the coolest, someone anyone can rely on whenever they’re hurt. But I’m trying my best here, too, dammit!” Shotaro exclaims, thick with bitterness. His fingers clutch around the ceramic, hoping with enough strength it’ll shatter into a hundred pieces… If that’s what it’ll take to garner the man’s attention. “I’d rather be useful to you than just sit here alone. I told you before. I don’t want the city I love to cry, and that includes you. I can’t do that properly if I keep getting pushed aside!”
It catches Shokichi off guard, mid-sip, before settling his cup down. The detective turns his head over to meet Shotaro’s expression, riddled with vexation that burns his eyes, blinking wildly to not allow any tears to slip. This kid’s always been highly observant of those around him, perhaps so much so that he doesn’t recognize himself.
Sokichi had been particularly jaded these days, dragging his body and sleeping at his desk. It hurt to see him like this; it coiled his heart whenever he’d use his own coat as a makeshift blanket for him, or a cup of coffee remained untouched. The chief seemed particularly fragile… Especially after his spats of begging. He never wanted to go against him, nor ignore his hand that appeared to be helpless. He wanted to do something, anything, for him. Disregarding Sokichi’s warnings, the steps that lead up to the man in his usual chair bellow like thunder… or so he’d wish, but being light-footed meant nothing for intimidation.
“If I tell you to join me, that’s one thing. It’s another if I ask you to watch the place. The beast-man’s still at large, and I can’t be in two places at once.” Sokichi chided, “You’re my eyes here. I don’t want to be the one to tell your aunt if something were to happen to you.” His finger wags in his direction like a conductor’s baton, regardless of their shrinking distance. It’s no mistake putting emphasis on the obviousness: his aunt only allowed this because it was someone Shotaro trusted more than her.
At the mahogany-lacquered desk is where lives could be changed for the better. It wasn't here that Shotaro was saved by him initially, but feels at home nonetheless. Hidari Shotaro is destined to remain by his side. Sokichi, who hadn’t shifted away from the kid’s close proximity, was staring him down even if they weren’t exactly eye level to begin with. His index finger curls inwards to wipe off the trace of rain from his cheek. He’s cold and burning to the touch. The boy begins to straddle his mentor’s lap, shifting, which makes the chair creak on its hinges due to the added weight. His presence becomes shadowed in misery by pinning him, with his hands clutching onto the armrests.
“Ahh, jeez! That’s not the point I’m tryna make! I don’t just want to be a watchdog for you; I’m not that much of a brat you make me out to be! I notice these things too! Whenever you look so exhausted, I just… I…”
I want you to see me, too.
Those last words of vehemence never make it out of his mouth. He leaned in with every word, and mere moments became silent when Shotaro’s face met his, squinting his eyes shut. He couldn’t hold back from becoming magnetized.
His lips are softer than he would imagine, and he’d almost become taken aback by it… Bitter by the coffee and glossed by something sheer– it must’ve been some kind of lip balm. Unscented, but became stickier the more his lips became mutually covered. Through his varied pecks and hushed whimpers up the ripples of his throat, the slippery sensation equally coats the back of it. His hands, coming from either side of the armrests, now settle into a hold around either of his mentor’s biceps. As he continues his advances, his once stiffened shoulders gradually slope downwards, akin to melting with each gliding touch and angle of his head.
To Shotaro, it must be hardboiled to wear tailored suits, wear lip balm when the world’s life gets sucked out by cold winds, or choose a scent of aftershave that remains relatively pleasant. The boss takes these measures to take care of himself, too. How admirable, he believes, with his lashes coated in hot dew, burning his sclera from the salt of unshed tears.
On the contrary, the blonde streak in his hair had become fringed from bleach and a lack of a good cut; his unwashed sky-blue hoodie clings to his dampened flesh. His black uniform eventually gets peeled away from his back, a second skin plastered onto him, dropping heavily onto the ground beside them, but is unfit in concurrence to their relationship at hand. Right now, as he is, he’s nothing like Sokichi; but the more his breath titters near the side of his nose, his fingertips glide over the satin texture of his mentor’s white tie, unaware he’d been spreading dust across it… Shotaro believes he could be.
His head tilts in another direction, fully exploring the possibilities. In all his seventeen years, he’d never kissed a single person. While all his friends naturally had their share of puppy-love and teasing, he’d become so engrossed in his pursuit of recognition that he hadn’t lived like a juvenile would, nonetheless, with a girl. Perhaps he’d been fearful of it, and content to be meritless of mundane pleasures. A detective gives their life to their clients until cases come closed– it’d be cheating to spend his youth on anything else.
His fingers twinge between graying locks near the lobe of his mentor’s ear, delicately pulling at some strands for some sort of stability. A bold choice of direction for someone who needs to touch and be touched. Naturally, the timid contact is clumsy and aimless due to inexperience, yet buds warmth to the rounds of his cheeks. This sort of inexperience doesn’t prohibit him from continuing, nor does it make Sokichi feel anything other than pity. The poor kid probably doesn’t know any better. He recalls every pinnacle of tragedy in his life, and that’s what makes him stay right in place.
As his lingering kisses continue, distant sparks of pleasure in a race for time, burning the nape of his neck, the more he leans further into the older man. Those soft sounds of parting do little for his rampant, desirous mind; it prolongs the swell of it as he white-knuckles the lapel of expensive cotton, heady for more of what he mustn't keep. And the more Shotaro leans back, the more he feels like pulling his mentor into the deep alongside him, clutching with an iron-like hold as he’s draped underneath him. They’ve come chest-to-chest. Heart-to-heart. It draws soft sighs to tumble and flutter over the stubble of Sokichi’s chin and the hard set of his jaw, featherlight and quickly silenced by another unreciprocated kiss.
How could it feel so good? No, it must be because he’s kissing him. He’d begun to echo his grievances that became reflected in Sokichi’s gaze, glazed over with caustic indifference, and shut away from it, knowing he looks nothing like the man who refuses to embrace his weakened body. So, Shotaro would rather close his eyes to it. He curses himself for even garnering the same light to his mentor, but he believes he’s allowed to be selfish once in a while. He’s been trying his hardest, and his battered, young heart refuses to take any more rejection.
He’d forgiven the first taste of it, but it became out of hand.
The detective’s fingers twinge with a need to stop this, give him a lecture, and storm out towards the rain to cool himself off. Instead, his body stiffens to show no reaction to his advances, remains stoic, and faces forward with shaking eyes. The crease between his eyebrows deepens. Any other woman, or even a man, would fall prey to this treatment. It was so unreasonably pure, so full of sorrow, it nearly brought the man to tears. They’ve all since dried up, and focused on the leather grazing his cold wrists.
His mouth opens slightly to sigh out everything from his aching chest.
It’d be cruel to ignore this. Frankly, this kid has been beyond persistent these past ten or so years. For a child who is desperate to relieve themselves from a comfortable life at home and would beg to be on the front line of danger… Is both harrowing and admirable all the same. It’s why Sokichi cannot shun him away, but gently pushes him in another direction, in hopes he’d find another line of work to feel just as passionate about. This kid doesn’t know hardship and the betrayal of a friend… Another person’s life is in his palm. Although he may run from his home and responsibilities as a student, Sokichi cannot take responsibility for him, because Shotaro has proven to be dear to him and reawakened his spirit.
However, something beyond hesitant sounds dares to rip open. Sokichi can feel the boy’s breath get shallower and weak in every exhale. His lips nuzzle over rough stubble nearing the bottom corner of his mouth, and immediately grazes right back up to his target. Shotaro wants to say his name; he wants to profess the title he adores to lit out each time he addresses him. Chief. Old man. He knows the moment he speaks up, this dream will vanish… This belief doesn’t erase the anxious set to his expression, so he keeps kissing him to no avail, with his fingers entangled in crescents at the man’s black dress shirt, further bunching it up to leave delicate wrinkles behind. All this time, he’s been pitifully granting mutual imperfection.
Sokichi, on the other hand, hasn’t moved an inch. His hands remain rag-dolled over the loveseat’s armrests, and embody ice that cannot melt. Neither of them are perfect, but to the boy, he might as well be kissing a revered deity. To the man, a child is attempting to engulf him whole. His breath hitches when he tugs his mentor closer into him, shifting his weight leads to straddling a muscular thigh between his trembling own, rocking out the discomfort from his aching knees. It strips him unclad and vulnerable… In love, most of all.
Even if Sokichi hadn’t made an effort to meet him, it further spurred him on. He’s not backing down, no matter what the situation holds. Pinched up brows furrow in annoyance, caught in another one-sided chase. In turn, Shotaro’s whimpers turn into exasperated snorts and strangled sounds, and his fingers hook around the thick collar of the chief’s button-up, winching it downwards to see more flesh. In the back of his mind is a recalling, a dormant desire to deepen it… His tongue, bashful and pink, swipes at his mentor’s bottom lip in a gradual pace, as if to beckon him to open and accept.
To be understood… recognized. Even if it’s one small part.
But Shotaro’s lashes unknot and pry barely open… Expecting unfettered want, gaunt cheeks alight, and a gritted mouth holding ragged breaths so as to not consternate him. He wanted to see his mentor attempt to restrain himself, just as he had done all this time. He wants it all because the mere image of his chief, Narumi-san, in unbeknown expressions weakens his nerves and leaves him shifting closer onto his lap. Even if this was a form of rebellion all along, all of his passion, his need to be wanted, regardless of title and being… He’s looking for that inability to resist him or turn him away, at least only for this moment. To crack him down.
Alternatively, it renders him frozen. He’d been merely kissing a statue, a conduct of his wildest imaginations, and gone unresented. Rather, his disgruntled grimace hasn’t changed an inch. His heated face now seeps into an icy white. He’d been simply played for nothing but a fool. With his breath frantic and heavy, it’s no surprise when he chokes on it, thickly swallowing down anything that makes his stomach churn.
He’s repulsed in the kindest way possible. Emotionless without a brim of a hat to conceal it.
“Shotaro.” A detached tone commands the space and overwroughts all previous desire into crushing regret. It snaps the boy’s attention up at him, pleading and pursing his lips into a thin line. Releasing his hold, his fingers tremble for an entirely other reason than the force of his grip. What had he done?
It would’ve been better if he looked disgusted, pushed him away, called him every single disparaging thought, and all sorts of obscenities that rattled his mind… Licentious. Filthy. Homosexual. A boy in love with an older man is nothing more than strictly taboo, whom he considered to be a guardian in his eyes until a certain point. Of this situation, nothing had been found in their mutually esteemed novels, where the man gets the girl, but never the apprentice or partner in that matter. This was simply unheard of. What on earth was he thinking?
“C-Chief… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” The boy stammers with pleading eyes, uncharacteristic of him to be more weak-willed than he already is.
How low has he fallen to be anything other than an outsider? What has he been doing all this time? Why did he hope things would change? Had he taken him for granted? What is it that he wants? Family? Compassion? – Another void to counteract loneliness? What had he been trying to repress? Sokichi had been a father to him!
“I just… I’ve never kissed anyone before, so–” I wanted you to be my first. A shabby, half-true excuse that gets interrupted just as fast.
“You don’t go around kissing anyone. Do that with a girl you like. Not me. If you try this shit again, I’ll kick you right out. Do you understand?” Silence heavies the air between them. This hotheaded kid never learns. “Answer me.”
“... Yes. I understand, sir.”
Sokichi says nothing else in response to Shotaro’s acknowledgement, nor does his expression change from perpetual exhaustion. His careworn body travels up the stairs and collapses onto the bed with springs squeaking. The shell of his ears could faintly hear the boy’s shaky breaths and silent curses from his skin-bit lips. He’d been cruel, he knows that… Shotaro wouldn’t have acted out like that otherwise. Repentance seeps into his core as he shifts onto his side. There was no use changing into comfortable pajamas… His suit remains dampened by the pelting rain, sticky with lingering warmth and a signal of self derision. He drags his palms down his face. For him, he’ll shut it out for him. There’ll be no recognition for the sins they’ll count tonight. He’d avoided this, and now the price was paid.
Perhaps it’s out of fear or remorse when the younger man doesn’t follow him upstairs… His line of sight had been right back to the picture frame, tears blurring his vision. He gingerly handles the frame he’d done for the wooden bear… Even underneath moonlight’s beams, he cannot see himself in this family portrait, not when his cheeks are streaked with drying tears.
He’s right. He wouldn’t fit this sort of image… His hand flips the frame onto its face in seconds. The sound of chipping glass crinkles under his trembling palm, the more he adds unconscious weight. The more it breaks, the consonantly shatters as well, regret tightening his throat through unheard sobs. He’d only meant to keep it from his sight, but he hasn’t learned restraint yet. This loneliness will engulf him, with tired waves that capsize him. The glass in the frame remains shattered into pieces he couldn’t even count up. That’s when he realizes what had just occurred, a cold sweat dappling his nape. Shotaro pauses before he wipes his eyes with his sleeve, before picking it up to examine the injury done.
“He’s gonna kill me…” He murmured, brushing off the jagged stones from the frame. Taking out the picture to prevent any scratches on the surface, perversely, a piece of glass digs into his thumb with a hiss of pain. It’s by this he realized his mistake: handling it left a red splotch against the white back of the photograph. He’s quick to place it back inside the wooden frame and hide the damage. Although it’s intact and just as pristine, it has become incomplete.
How strange… Somehow, it floods a sick layer of warmth over his heart, a veil to protect himself with. Imperfection wasn’t to be hardboiled in the slightest… And at the same time, it was comforting. Levels of conformity came crashing down by his feet in a matter of seconds, scoffing belittlingly at the sight of it.
A weak grin mimics the photograph, wavering and pried open.
What he would give for the rain to lighten up.