downpour - backstreet boys
It's pouring with rain. His dad is out, doing his job, in this godawful weather. He has three guesses as to where Scott will be and he only needs one. He can hear the rain pitter-patter on his windowsill. Solitary drops of it drip from the gutter and tumble down the pane of glass. He's restless. It's been hot and humid for the past week and it's broken now. He can't sit still, hasn't taken his pills today. He couldn't be bothered. He's not tired. He lies in bed and listens to the raindrops. It's still humid and muggy, so he opens his window.
Now, he can smell the scent of wet grass and wet foliage. The rain continues to fall, heavier and heavier. He gives up trying to sleep and just sits at the window and watches the rain fall. He can't see very far out into the night, it's falling so thickly. He's got homework due in tomorrow, and he can't be bothered to do it.
There's a knock at his front door. He goes down to answer it. Jackson is stood on his porch. "I was trying to sleep," he says.
"Fully dressed?" Jackson raises an eyebrow. He shrugs. He's been known to forget little things like that. Jackson's wet.
"Did you walk here?"
"No," Jackson says, like it should be obvious, but really, it's not. "I drove." The door is still open. He briefly wonders why he hasn't invited Jackson in yet. Jackson is wondering the same thing. "Sorry," he says. "Not quite with it." Jackson smirks, but refrains from making a derogatory comment.
It feels odd, having Jackson in his house. He's been to Jackson's plenty of times. They've done whatever it is they're doing at Jackson's house, and in the locker rooms after practice. Never in his house, though. He's not sure he could face his dad if he caught them doing something. He doesn't think Jackson cares too much. Which might be why he's here now. Or it might not. It's hard to say with Jackson. "Let's go outside," Jackson says. Maybe Jackson's mad, he thinks. It's never been proven or disproven, but right now, it seems likely. "C'mon, let's go outside," Jackson says.
"It's pouring with rain," he hears himself say. Jackson scoffs and grabs his wrist. He lets himself be pulled out into the garden and the sheets of rain. He is soaked almost immediately, but he can't bring himself to care particularly. Maybe it's Jackson's fault. The intoxicating sense of freedom and spontaneity which he feels when Jackson's around. Actually, there's no 'maybe' about it. It is fully and completely and utterly Jackson's fault and he doesn't care.
The rain is freezing cold, but he doesn't care about that either. Jackson's hand is in his own and Jackson grabs his other hand. He turns to face him. Jackson's eyes are oceans and he doesn't even care how clichéd that sounds. He can't stop staring into them. He's lost in them and... Jackson's kissing him in the pouring rain. And it's so clichéd and just a bit romantic that, when Jackson pulls away, he grins widely. "You old softie," he says. "You're just a romantic." He's about to tease Jackson, but he's kissed again. Jackson pulls away and he whines. Jackson chuckles and presses kisses on his lips. "Stiles," he whispers as he does it, and hearing Jackson say his name makes Stiles ridiculously happy. He doesn't even care that he's soaking wet and liable to be ill in the morning. He's just happy to stand in the pouring rain with Jackson.