randoms || maybe sp based

Petrichor.

Very short.
Based off the song petrichor by Nate Steckler.
Written by Veondre; Watchers of Azazel system.

Word count: 577

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It hadn't rained in Gods knew how long. This dry spell was a particularly awful one, drying out the farmers' crops and dehydrating large families and many herds of livestock. It was sickening to watch.

You were in disbelief when it finally rained again. One by one, the first globs of water hit the window, splattering and slowly streaking down the glass to pool on the windowsill. You couldn't quite process it. Was it really raining? Was this a dream?

Yet sure enough, a half a minute later there are more and more droplets of water splashing against your window. It's real. It's very real. A small smile creeps onto your face as you trace the veining strips of water with your fingertip, eagerly watching more and more splashes of rain drum against your window.

Soon it's a downpour. The water hammers against the glass, and you grin. You stand, pull on your old brown leather boots, and, taking a deep breath, open your door to step out into the beautiful rain.

You're soaked within fifteen seconds, but you expected as much. You lift your face to the sky, allowing your eyes to slide shut as rainwater drums against your skin, sliding through your hair and down your face and underneath your clothes. You smile, a genuine smile with teeth on full display. The rain drums down on them, seeping in between the gaps and filling your mouth.

You don't know how long you stand there, staring through shut eyelids at a gray, crying sky, but somehow you find yourself sitting on the pavement. Your clothes catch on the concrete and tear a little, the soggy fabric giving way to the sharp, jagged rock very easily.

You sit there, in your driveway, in muddy, soaked clothes, with messy hair— you sit there and you feel the rain caress your skin. You allow yourself to be held by the weeping clouds, to be kissed by them. You allow yourself to cry with them, although your tears mix with the rainwater that flows into the gutter, and nobody beside you would ever know the difference.

It felt oddly fitting that your tears be mixed with the skies.

You let your mind wander. You let yourself go, be swept away by the emotion of the Earth. You sit there for hours, until you're shivering and shaking and you can't sit there anymore. At which point you get up, walk back into your home, strip, and fall asleep without drying your hair.

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In the morning, when your clothes have dried and the rain has ceased, you put the clothes back on and step outside. Your boots sink into fresh mud, and you smile again.

There are worms on the pavement, wriggly, dirty things— the purist of the Earths creatures have been brought to the surface. You help as many as you can back into their muddy abodes. You leave some for the birds and frogs. Petrichor is heavy in the air.

You sit again, in the same spot as the day previous, and you stare at the skies who once weeped for their own reasons. You think of the water. You think of your tears.

There's a worm beside you. you lift them gently and set them back into their lovely, dirty palace. They squirm in thanks, and you return to thinking of the clouds who cried for their own reasons.

Petrichor is heavy in the air.

It will storm tonight.