Disclaimer: Don't own Glee.
Dedication: For Miss Maggie, because she's had a rough couple of days and also because I love her muchly. Hope you feel better, bb.
He doesn't know what love feels like.
He thinks this is probably pretty close to it, these lips and this tongue and the sigh she makes when he touches her there—thinks this is probably love or something like it.
It feels like rain, like standing outside in the middle of April with the rain pouring down from the sky and all you do is tilt your head up and spread your arms open wide, letting it pour down all around you as you laugh or cry or sing or dance or just be still and think.
He'd carry the metaphor further, say he was a flower, but he doesn't think flowers can feel like this—this deep and this hopeful bursting loveliness inside of his chest.
(Sometimes he thinks he might just explode into a million lovely pieces, he feels so filled up from all her love-like-rain.)
The first time they have sex, it's not perfect.
Not even close.
They read about it, watched movies about it, and in the Happily-Ever-After of print and screen, everything happens smoothly and nicely and lovely and wonderful. The books and the movies, they don't tell about the tears before, during and after (of which there were plenty, tears of pain and fear and maybe even a little of happiness, on both ends), don't prepare you for teeth and noses bumping, or for the sweat that pools between you and makes you feel all gross and clammy after, or the way breath feels against your skin, how it tickles a little bit, and how its warmth is almost uncomfortable.
The first time they have sex, it ended almost badly, with her curled into his lap in a shuddering ball and she cried and he tries to put it out of memory, because that's not the way you want to remember your first time.
(The second time is not having sex. It's making love, and when she cries, they're happy tears.)
They fall into a routine, because that's what you do when you love someone—you're easy with them, relaxed and comfortable and that's the way love's supposed to be, he thinks, like a gentle soaking rain.
It's not always gentle, though, not always relaxed lazy days at home with a book—sometimes it's thunderstorm love—passion and love and hot, hot sex that makes them both want to scream the roof down.
(Sometimes they scream so loud, he secretly thinks they might scream the roof down, and they ignore the neighbors banging on the wall. They're just jealous, anyway.)
One time, after sex, she sits up in bed and he's half-asleep and lazy, eyes closed and he hasn't shaved in a few days. She sits up and brings her finger to his nose. He opens his eyes and they cross, focusing on his finger and they both laugh. Then he kisses the finger she has balanced on his nose and she smiles and leans in and he can count her eyelashes and this is love.
This love is easy and beautiful and passionate and it's all he can do to keep from crying because it's so perfect. It feels like rain, like drops on his skin, soaking through his clothes to cover him so completely he doesn't think he'll ever get dry, ever step out of her love-like-rain.
(He thinks he's probably okay with this, soaked to the bone and silly in love.)
Feedback is, as always, muchly appreciated.