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You thought Chicago was supposed to be the Windy City. You knew Seattle was damp, but no one had thought to warn you that it was also evidently hurricane-prone, and in January of all months.
“They’re not hurricanes, Dave, just lots of wind and rain!” John tells you. At least, that’s what you think he said, it’s hard to hear him even at this distance.
He’s grinning, skin washed out under the streetlight, glasses almost useless in this weather, one arm trying to cover your back with his jacket and the other tucked between you for warmth. As for you, you’re focusing on maintaining your grip on the umbrella. Damn thing’s pretty much useless at this point anyways, the rain’s coming down sideways and the spokes keep inverting. The rivers down the street are almost up to the curb. Your legs will be soaked when a cab pulls up, not that it’ll make any difference to the state of your ensemble at this point.
“Dave, put that thing down, it isn’t doing us any good. It’s going to either break or smack me in the face. Broken noses aren’t very sexy,” continues John. You shake your head defiantly, reaching over him to pull your meager cover back down, dumping a small puddle right down John’s back in the process. You grin when he squeaks. His glare is so much less effective when you know he can barely see you. “Insufferable prick,” he mutters.
It’s not really that late in the evening, but this being the dead of winter, sundown was at four, and by eight, it may as well be midnight. You’re both huddled outside the restaurant where you’d finished your fifth anniversary date, trying to flag down a cab that will take you back to your apartment. You’re a gentleman; you aren’t going to try your luck on the Seattle Metro on your anniversary. Not with the transfers needed to make it back to your place, certainly not in this weather and this light.
The more he starts to shiver against you, the worse you feel about accidentally soaking him. But if you hadn’t done it, the downpour would’ve, so you shuffle the umbrella around a bit and sneak your free arm behind his back under his jacket and shirt to rub circles on his back, warming him up and pulling him closer to you. His skin is icy under your touch. That little grin of his comes back, as it tends to when you’re close to him. He’s so fucking tactile.
You turn your head and plant one on what’s either a sudden local glacier or your boyfriend’s face. “You’re freezing, dude.”
He snorts, and the vapor of his breath is stolen by the wind. “I know. Thaw me out when you have hot tea ready and Macconaghey streaming on netflix.”
“Wow rude, asking your boyfriend for your man-crush on the night of your anniversary. You wound my pride, John Egbert. You know that harlot will never love you like I do.”
Just then, your cab finally rolls up, and you disentangle your limbs from John’s as best you can without any feeling in them long enough to climb into the back seat together. You take the middle so you can lean on each other all the way home and list off all the warm things you’re going to do together once you recover enough dexterity to operate your keys.