[They're soaked. Fluffy hair - both pink and brown - is plastered to skin, clothing is soaked and clinging, Souza's bare feet are covered in mud and the bottom hem of his yukata is thoroughly splattered, but that doesn't matter. None of it matters. The crops are okay - of course they were - and he's toeing the edge of being out of breath, but Mutsu is beaming and all the discomfort is worth it.
And it's barely even discomfort in the first place.
His hand is squeezed and he squeezes back unconsciously, still not letting go, still letting his arm swing between them, still barely realizing that maybe they don't need to still be holding hands anymore. Of course they do. They're standing out in the pouring rain, looking at totally-fine crops. Kasen would have a fit with them for making more laundry to do. His skin is chilled, but Mutsu's hand is warm in his, and Souza can't help but laugh - open and sincere, a rare sound that's hardly ever heard outside of the Samonji room.]
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And it's barely even discomfort in the first place.
His hand is squeezed and he squeezes back unconsciously, still not letting go, still letting his arm swing between them, still barely realizing that maybe they don't need to still be holding hands anymore. Of course they do. They're standing out in the pouring rain, looking at totally-fine crops. Kasen would have a fit with them for making more laundry to do. His skin is chilled, but Mutsu's hand is warm in his, and Souza can't help but laugh - open and sincere, a rare sound that's hardly ever heard outside of the Samonji room.]
All that... for nothing...