This fellow underneath a canopy of sturdy cloth does his best to not overly mind the monsoon. The morning hour feels dim by the sadness from the heavens still going on, hiding the sun away. At times, he wipes the tears from high above that led leaped or glided onto his face.

The humming is loud like applause of a pleased crowd on loop. The endless descent of drops as the earth around him is being thoroughly soaked for miles. A stern footstep can break through the fair melody or even with words aired clearly and without shame.

Near a tree on the side of a paved provincial road, Madara has been waiting shy of half an hour. He is doing his very best to ignore what discomfort of being drenched there is to be felt. To his better act of wisdom, he came to commit this outdoor waiting with a pair of leather footwear. Such tall leggings are without a single puncture to merely let the rain pester his socks and, more so, his toes. Just the thought of having them soaked in a manner he is not fond of stirs something sour and shudder-worthy in this black-haired fellow.

The greater canopy of long branches behind him has its many leaves back that withered away for two seasons. It does much to shun away much of the downfall.

The waiting fellow takes a deep breath, pleased by the chill in the mid-spring air. A smile soon curves a bit on his lips made somewhat wet by the rain. It isn’t just from the nice refreshment for the lungs, no. The arched pair made out of some semblance of delight also comes from the mellow pitter-patter of footsteps. They aren’t his, that’s for certain. Blue eyes swing together but without anything else from his rather pale-skinned face.

“Couldn’t you have picked a better place to meet?” Madara asked the newcomer.
“Somewhere, I don’t know... dry?”
The other replies but after scoffing a short light wheeze, “Yeah, I could’ve.”
Such bravado in tone is a hint manlier than this parasol-wielding fellow who has been waiting for a while now.
“But where’s the fun in that? Besides, a little rain won’t kill you.”