Edmund leaned his shoulder against Francis when the man offered, surprising himself.  He didn't like touches from stranger in the best of times.  But Francis wasn't a stranger, he was his friend.  So it wasn't very strange at all then, was it?

Quietly, he listened to Francis speak, staring at the empty ground he'd been brought to.  It sounded so nice, but so sad, and Edmund couldn't figure out why.  It took him a moment to realize, it was because Francis was speaking in the past tense.

What must have happened, then?  To this friend, and the quiet damp word they'd enjoy together?

Edmund turned to look up at his friend, meeting his eyes.  "It's not silly.  It's sweet."  Francis would see the bad weather and instead of dreading it, he'd made good memories with someone who was probably a very good friend.  All Edmund could do with the weather was dread it, curse it, cry and cower beneath tables from thunder and his father.

"I suppose it's not so bad when the rain is so light like this," he conceded, closing his eyes.  "It's bigger storms like before I'm afraid of.  When it got like that back home... we couldn't stay outside.  It was dangerous on the fields when it got so bad, but - hah, my sister and I didn't like being inside."

At some point, Edmund's head had fallen onto Francis' shoulder, and he only realized it when he opened his eyes and the world was tilted.  He did not straighten himself.

"Damn fathers and all that," he whispered.  There was a movement in his shoulders, like a shrug, stifled by the contact between his and his friend.