Disclaimer: This is Konomi's fault, not mine.
Warnings: BL, fluff, mentions of a certain St. Rudy pairing in the background (but seriously, when isn't there?)
Cultural/Language Note: "Ai ai gasa" literally means "to share an umbrella" but, because the Japanese love homophones, it can also be "love love umbrella." Sharing an umbrella is supposed to be a romantic thing in Japan, like a sign of affection between couples and whatnot.
Author's Note: It was raining, and thus. This was born. I'm actually rather pleased with it.
Fuji's umbrella is one of those everyday things which he loves very much. It's light green with darker green apples patterned evenly across it and has a matching dark green plastic handle that curves up at the bottom, like a "shi" in hiragana. The rod in the centre is metal, but the rest is a shiny plastic, and Fuji likes the sound that rain makes against it; it's softer, fuller, somehow, than the smattering of rain on a fabric umbrella. His umbrella is a little old-fashioned in that it doesn't fold up to be tiny like most umbrellas in stores these days; it only folds once, in, and remains long and cylindrical and has a dark green plastic tip. Yuuta tells him that it's cumbersome and inconvenient, but Fuji likes the way it swings in his hand when he walks with it closed, the way it looks when it's all wrapped up and long and slim and slender. And what does Yuuta know about umbrellas, anyway? Yuuta used to carry an old, beat up plain black umbrella until, one day, mysteriously, he came home with a brand new, compact brown plaid one that looked suspiciously like Burberry. Fuji hates it and tells Yuuta regularly that it's aesthetically unappealing, which, of course, isn't the real reason he hates it, and the fact that Yuuta "thinks it's cool" isn't the reason Yuuta continues to carry it. But either way, Fuji much prefers his long, sleek, plastic umbrella, all green and attractive and perfect; he loves it with the sort of love for day-to-day items that makes him want to use it as much as possible, even if there's only the slightest chance of rain the forecast.
But Fuji almost never carries his umbrella. On rainy days, he looks outside before leaving for school and weighs his options; is it coming down hard enough that, for the duration of the walk, he'll get soaked? Usually, the answer is that he doesn't care, and so he hides his prized umbrella away and "forgets," and does his best to avoid Nee-san and her car on the way to school. After all, it would defeat the purpose entirely if he got a ride. And so he walks the route that he walks everyday, his ten-minutes-longer "shortcut," a smile on his face as his hair, his clothes, his things get drenched.
He never runs. Sometimes, when he's miscalculated and it's raining harder than he imagined, he's tempted, but he always walks evenly, if a bit briskly. When he reaches the street with the row of little shops, he ducks under the awnings, fully, fully aware of how pathetic he looks. By now, his hair is clinging to his cheeks, his uniform sticking to his body awkwardly. But he ignores it and continues to skirt the buildings until:
"Aa-- good morning, Taka-san."
"Oh, I'm fine, really."
"I'll run back in and get you a towel--"
"No, there's no need. Really. I'm fine."
"... are you sure?"
"I'm very sure, Taka-san, but thank you."
"... at least stand under my umbrella."
"Are you sure? I don't want to be a bother."
He's sure Taka-san has caught on by now, but he never shows any sign of it; as always, Fuji stands just under the edge of Taka-san's large, burgundy umbrella, still half getting wet, and Taka-san sighs and smiles and shakes his head before wrapping an arm around Fuji's shoulders and pulling him close, all the way under. Fuji, of course, pretends to protest a little, but Taka-san won't let him, and so, huddled close together, touching, they're off to Seishun Gakuen.
Usually, Taka-san will walk with Fuji until they're both under cover and then break away, closing the umbrella and shaking it out while Fuji politely waits, and then they head inside together, a proper distance apart, and everything is back to normal. But today, as the reach the gate, Fuji realizes something's different, because Taka-san is slowing down, coming to a stop by the wall. Fuji slows to a stop, too, of course, looks up inquisitively. "Taka-san?"
Taka-san is blushing slightly, looking at him, and there's a moment of silence. Fuji is confused, doesn't even realize what's going to happen until it happens. But then Taka-san is leaning down, careful still to keep the umbrella above Fuji's head, and kissing him, softly, lightly, barely on the lips. When he pulls back, it's abrupt, and he's even redder in the face than before, and Fuji doesn't believe it, but his own face feels warm, too. Taka-san looks like he's not quite sure what he's done, like he's afraid Fuji might turn and walk away from him, and Fuji almost laughs because, well, isn't it obvious that this is what this whole umbrella ploy is about? But apparently not to Taka-san, because Taka-san is sweet and caring and thinks only the best of him (and how could Fuji help being in love, really?), and so Fuji places his hand lightly atop Taka-san's on the handle of the umbrella and opens his eyes and smiles, and, after a moment, Taka-san grins back widely, and then it's back to normal, in through the gates, under the awning, shake out the umbrella--
But then, before they head inside, Taka-san catches his eye again, still smiling, and says, "You're never a bother, Fujiko-chan. No matter how many times you forget your umbrella." And Fuji can't help but laugh, his eyes falling shut again pleasantly as he presses his small hand into Taka-san's warm, strong one, and then they head inside, together, closer than before.
When Eiji loudly inquires from his locker as to why they're so close together, Taka-san turns scarlet again, but Fuji only smiles and perfectly calmly explains that, on the way to school, they were sharing an umbrella.