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He only lets himself think about Kurt Hummel when it rains.
When the streets are flooded and David puts on a pot of tea, he can’t help but stare out the window. The chill seeps in from the cracks in the walls. It crawls up his spine and tickles his bones.
He shivers. A blanket is draped over him. He snaps his head up and turns around.
“Hey.” Dave’s voice is soft, considerate, a gentle hand on his shoulder. He wants to shove him away. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” He shakes his head, turns back to the window.
“You like rain?”
Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap.
It was raining the day that Kurt did irreversible damage to his heart and soul. Pouring, actually. One could call it a torrent, an avalanche, a tempest. Or maybe he was being dramatic. Dave calls him dramatic. He’s only teasing, of course. But Kurt never called him dramatic.
Kurt liked the diva in him. He always said he loved him, flaws and all. Kurt used to love rain. He wonders if he still does. It rains all the time in New York.
“No. I hate it.”
“Then why are you by the window? It’s colder over here.”
Tip-tap, tip-tap. “I don’t know.”
He knows. Dave knows, too. He’d told him a long time ago.
“Come and have some tea with me. Don’t think about the rain.” He hesitates. “Don’t think about him .”
He turns to look at him again. His eyes are shining with adoration. He can’t say no to those eyes. They remind him of someone he’s lost. “Okay.”
He doesn’t want to sit at the table. He wants to look at the rain and remember the night that Kurt Hummel broke up with him. He also doesn’t want to do that. It’s all a bit confusing.
He doesn’t really like tea, but he likes a good London Fog. He likes the way Kurt makes a London Fog. Or made a London Fog. He liked the way Kurt knew what he liked.
He doesn’t like the way Dave still has to ask when to stop pouring sugar. He doesn’t like the way Dave holds him at night. He doesn’t like the only meal Dave can cook: tomato soup and grilled cheese.
Kurt knows that he prefers to be the little spoon. Kurt knows that he doesn’t like his stomach touched. Kurt knows exactly how to make his tea and his coffee. Kurt wouldn’t have to ask if he liked rain.
Kurt would have snuggled close in their bed, kissed his forehead and told him it’d be over soon. Kurt would have held him while he cried. Kurt would have offered to distract him with his favorite movie. Kurt would have made his favorite dinner.
The soup is taunting him, mocking him with its flecks of herbal seasoning that he can’t stand. They stick to his tongue and it burns and if Kurt had made it he would have used their favorite brands.
He really shouldn’t be complaining. Dave is sweet and treats him well. Not well enough. Not good enough, not good enough, not Kurt enough. Dave isn’t Kurt. Dave’s love is painful.
Why is Dave’s love painful?
Love should be sweet. Love should feel like coming home on a cold day to a warm fireplace and tea you can drink and a partner that you share your life with.
Love shouldn’t feel like this.
He wonders why he even chose David. Maybe he wanted to hurt Kurt too. Maybe that’s why he bears the pain of his kiss and his touch and his kind words. Maybe he wanted Kurt to look at him and Dave and feel utter humiliation, the way he felt being shouted at in a public restaurant in the pouring rain. Maybe he wanted Kurt to go home and sob and consider the pros and cons of death the same way he had. Maybe it was wishful thinking.
Kurt wouldn’t do that, not Kurt Hummel. Kurt Hummel, extravagant and kind, strong and resilient, no, he would smile through it regardless of the pain and he would wish them well.
Maybe he was being petty by greeting Dave with a kiss the same way Kurt had when they were living together.
But Blaine only thinks about it when it rains. If he’s in blissful ignorance, it’s okay. Any sunny day, he’ll kiss Dave and he won’t want Dave to be anyone else.
On cloudy days, he can cuddle up to his new boyfriend and watch the football game and bond over the things they share.
On snowy days, well, they haven’t had any yet. He doesn’t quite think they’ll ever get any. If they did? Blaine might cry.
Winter was their season. Christmas was their holiday. Snow was their weather.
It’s a good thing it’s summer now, Blaine thinks. Summer in Lima is their dry season.
The rain begins to let up. He glances out the window again. David smiles at him and for a moment, he forgets.
“You want to watch the game tonight?”
Dave knows him so well. He knows a distraction will help. Blaine has to remind himself sometimes that he truly cares.
“That sounds lovely.”
If he only misses Kurt when it rains, he’ll be okay until the next storm.