Rain pounded against the windows as Blaine sipped his coffee, creating a rythmn like a steady drumbeat, broken only by quick, bright flashes of lightning and thunder. It was soothing, comforting despite its seemingly menacing atmosphere - something solid despite its lack of substance, something real in Blaine's world where he wished that everything else wasn't.

He'd been coming here every weekend for the past three years, absorbed himself in his novels and music and whatever else he could get his hands on in order to pass the time. He was lonely, with very few aquaintances and one or two close friends who had gone off to pursue other careers in other cities. Not to mention his love life, which had become all but non-existent.

Blaine was alone, and everyone knew it. He was lonely little Blaine Anderson, stuck in Ohio all by himself while his friends were off becoming famous and falling in love.

Needless to say, he hated it. But what could he possibly do about it?

All he had was himself and this café, really. The Van Gogh café was like a piece of him, lit up with the soft glow of the lanterns that hung over each table, their light casting shadows over the paintings strung over the walls. None were originals, of course, they were Van Gogh after all, but they were pieces of art, nonetheless, and Blaine loved it. He was an artist himself - a former artist, at least. He hadn't had much inspiration to paint or compose ever since the supposed love of his life ran off with another man in order to better pursue his dreams in New York.

Blaine sat at the same table every day, the one nearest to The Starry Night. It was his spot, and everybody else seemed to understand that. He'd subconciously scratched quotes from songs and poetry into the wood, as if marking his place. Vandalism wasn't really his thing, but the owner didn't seem to mind - she claimed that he just needed to let his thoughts out, and this was one way of doing that.

When the door opened on this particular rainy evening, he didn't look up. It was probably just another person coming in to shelter from the rain, right? He heard the jingling of the bell at the top corner of the door as it clicked shut, heard the shaking out of an umbrella and the pause before the footsteps approached him.

"Is this seat taken?"

That certainly got his attention.

Blaine lifted his head in surprise, looking up at the stranger. He looked around twenty, close to his own age, with short dirty blonde hair and blue eyes that made Blaine's heart skip a beat. He was dressed in a blue flannel shirt, unbuttoned down the front and exposing the white T-shirt underneath, complete with a pair of dark blue jeans and once-white, worn and stained converse. His lips were full and looked so temptingly soft, causing Blaine to wonder for a moment what they would feel like against his. He quickly pushed the thought away. He most certainly would not be falling head-over-heels for this mysterious, handsome stranger whom he didn't even know the name of.

Although he most certainly wouldn't be turning him out of bed anytime soon.

"U-um, yeah, of course," Blaine replied, silently cursing the tremor that must've been obvious in his voice. He pulled his messenger bag across the table, setting it on the floor to clear a space for the other man. The stranger smiled, and Blaine hoped to god it wasn't too obvious how his heart was nearly melting at the sight.

God, what was he doing? There was no way in hell this man could ever be interested in him. He was far too handsome, seemed way too far out of his league.

Then again, he had asked to sit with him despite the only other occupants in the café being a handful of teenagers and an elderly couple sheltering from the storm.

So maybe he had a chance.

"I'm Sam Evans," the blonde greeted him, holding put a hand to shake. "And, no, before you ask, I don't like green eggs and ham."

Oh god, he was such a dork. An adorable, unnervingly sexy dork.

"Blaine Anderson," Blaine replied, shaking Sam's hand in greeting, noting on how firm his grip was before letting go. He chuckled a bit at the comment, something he hadn't done in a long time. "What makes you think I would say that?"

Sam shrugged, leaning back in his seat, his legs spread apart and his arms laid over the top of the table in a way that positively screamed dominance and masculinity and holy crap he was hot. "I dunno, you kinda seem like a pun kind of guy."

Blaine smiled a bit and slumped forward slightly, leaning against his elbows and crossing his legs under the table, watching Sam trace over his graffiti writing with his index finger. "I am, I suppose," he replied. That is, when I actually man up and speak to people. Even having this conversation right now was weird for him, being one of the biggest introverts in Lima (in his opinion, of course). But, for some reason, he felt comfortable around Sam. He just had no idea why.

"Why did you sit next to me?" Blaine asked, tilting his head to the side curiously. "When most of the tables are empty, I mean. Why would you want to sit with me?"

Sam gave another shrug, and Blaine had to contain a shiver as their feet brushed together underneath the table, quickly pulling his own back. "Well, you seem kinda lonely, man," Sam replied, running his fingers through those perfect blonde locks. "And sitting alone in a café is kinda awkward, right?"

Blaine gave a small nod, biting his lip and averting his gaze to the table. "I suppose that makes sense," he replied, glancing up and sucking in a quick breath when their eyes met. He quickly directed his gaze elsewhere, to the painting hanging on the wall beside them. Sam followed his gaze, his lips turning up into a grin.

"You're an art kind of guy?" he asked, drumming his fingers against the top of the table. Blaine looked up at him, a small smile teasing the corners of his own lips.

"Is it that obvious?" he replied, chuckling softly. "I am. I'm more into music, but I haven't performed in over two years."

Sam tilted his head, his eyebrows furrowed quizzically. "Why's that?"

Blaine hesitated for a moment before replying, his gaze focused on the table, his fingers tracing over the marks he'd made in the wood. "What are you trying to do?" He looked back up, meeting Sam's gaze firmly, noting once more how pretty his eyes were.

Sam stared back for a moment before letting out a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. "I need a place to stay," he mumbled, biting his bottom lip and looking up at him. "I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find a hotel..."

Blaine chuckled and shook his head. "I can't help you out with a hotel," he replied, smiling a bit. Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Blaine quickly silenced him. "But I've got an empty bedroom with your name on it."

Sam seemed shocked, at the least, and Blaine didn't blame him for a moment. It wasn't exactly a daily occurence when a complete stranger offered to share their home with you. Finally, he spoke.

"You're not, like, a homicidal maniac or anything, are you?"

Blaine laughed at that. "Do I look like a homicidal maniac?" he replied, suddenly realizing that it wasn't helping in the least and oh crap did he? He was tempted to check his reflection on his phone screen, seeing as he'd been neglecting his normal shaving ritual for the last couple of days and his gel had been mussed up by the rain, but managed to control himself.

He almost sighed with relief when Sam shook his head.

"Nah, you seem pretty chill," the blonde replied, tilting his head a bit and smiling. "A little rubbly, but chill."

Blaine laughed a bit and ran his fingers over his chin, feeling the stubble that had sprouted there over the last few days. "Hmm. Rubbly. I like it."

Sam nodded. "Rubbly and slightly disheveled," he replied, folding his hands together on the table. "It's cute."

Blaine blushed before he could stop himself; he let out a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. "I'm not cute," he replied,biting his lip. "Trust me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sure you aren't," he replied, sarcasm lacing his voice. His tone remained playful, nonetheless. The blonde leaned over the table, nudging Blaine's shoulder gently. "So how's about that spare room you were talking about?"

Blaine couldn't help but grin at the enthusiasm that was practically oozing from the other man, standing and, without thinking, holding out his hand as he grabbed his bag. "How about I show you?"

Sam paused for a moment, more out of surprise than distaste, as he looked at the shorter man's outstretched hand. To the Blaine's relief, he took it. "Gladly," he replied with a wide smile.

Their eyes met and, suddenly, they both froze. They just stood there for a moment, looking into each other's eyes, feeling the need to question the existence of all the struggles that existed beyond them. In that short moment, nothing seemed to matter aside from each other.

But then Blaine had turned and was leading Sam to the front door, guiding him out of the Van Gogh Cafe and into the rain.