He prefers the evenings. The temperature cools down and the fireflies come out to light up the backyard. He lays out old towels so he can lay on the grass, but he lets his feet hang off the side because otherwise he wouldn’t fit. When he was smaller, he could curl up on the towels easily.

The grass feels cool beneath his toes. He wishes Blaine was beside him.

This would be a good first kiss. Kurt still likes to imagine first kisses. Sometimes they’re on rooftops, sometimes they’re in Kurt’s car with the rain pouring down outside.

Kurt likes to pretend the stars are his ceiling. It’s quiet out here, aside from the crickets and the distant sound of his Dad and Carole watching television inside.

Blaine’s off for a summer-long stint as a camp counselor. Kurt has actively been trying not to think of Blaine in ill-fitting board shorts, sun-kissed and carefree. He misses him so much that it aches sometimes, worse than the ache he felt before there was ever a Blaine to miss.

The letter in Kurt’s pocket might as well weigh a thousand pounds. It’s heavy with distance and a sort of longing Kurt usually associates with terrible daytime television.

He should have kissed him when he had the chance. Then he wouldn’t be left here imagining increasingly cheesier first kisses.

It feels like he’ll never have another chance, but Kurt also knows that summer won’t last forever.

-

Dear Kurt,

It’s only the first week and I’m losing my mind. I have no cell phone reception. Usually this wouldn’t be a problem, but this summer it is. Last summer, I didn’t really have a lot of people to text.

I miss texting you. It makes me look busy and important when I’m surrounded by other people. Even though you’re usually sending me pictures of cats.

I don’t just miss texting you, though. I miss you. I miss your hugs. I miss you taking me to coffee. (I feel that now is the best time to confess that my medium drip is really a hot chocolate. I have a deal with the barista. I wanted you to think I was mature.) I miss you. You owe me hugs and hot chocolate when I get back. I’m aware that it will be July. My demands still stand.

Please don’t forget about me for some other hopeless boy in a goofy blazer. But if you do, ask him why the fuck he’s wearing a blazer in June.

Love,
Blaine

-

Kurt hugged him before he left for Columbus. Blaine’s parents had been lurking awkwardly by the car, waiting for them to say their goodbyes.

“I’ll never say goodbye to you,” Kurt had murmured in his ear.

“You are so lame,” Blaine had chuckled.

It would have been a good time to kiss him, had his parents not been hovering.

Instead, Kurt socked him in the shoulder. “I hope you get eaten alive by a lake monster.”

-

Kurt brings the worn paper to his face. A week ago, he could swear it smelled like sunscreen and Blaine’s cologne. He might have been imagining it. Wishful thinking.

Now it just smells like paper.

-

Dear Blaine,

I knew it was hot chocolate. I know everything.

I keep trying to text you, but then I remember that you won’t get it anyway. Never have I felt more pathetic about my social life. You are my social life. When did that happen?

No one met up this month. Everyone seems to be busy with community theater and summer jobs. I saw Harmony for lunch yesterday. She says you’re going to be working at King’s Island when you get home. You sure keep busy. And here I thought summer was for catching up on sleep and plotting the demise of the ice cream truck man.

Kidding about the ice cream man, mostly.

Please write back soon, Blaine. I was kidding about the lake monster.

Love,
Kurt

P.S. There aren’t any other boys. I promise.

-

He feels a bit pathetic, lurking by the mailbox on most days. The mailman is judging him, Kurt is certain of this.

Blaine uses lime green envelopes covered with stickers, so they’re easy to spot. They are a ray of hope in a sea of junk mail. They contain little anecdotes from his days and stories from his life as a camp counselor. Kurt hangs on to every word.

Kurt can feel something changing with each letter, like they’ve grown closer during their time apart. It’s ironic, considering the fact that they haven’t seen each other since that day at Dalton. But maybe distance really does make the heart grow fonder.

They close all of their letters with love, and it feels a little odd, considering the fact that they’ve never said it to each other until now. At the same time, it also feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Kurt sends cookies and mix cds. Blaine sends pressed flowers and increasingly more personal notes.

He tells Kurt in a letter than he still has nightmares about Sadie Hawkins sometimes. Scary ones that bring him back to that night. He swears he can taste blood when he wakes up, covered in sweat and kicking off the sheets.

Kurt tells him that he used to have a crush on the boy that might be his stepbrother someday. He feels embarrassed, reading back over the words, and he mails off the letter before he can change his mind.

Blaine asks why Kurt didn’t kiss him that day.

Kurt tells him that he wasn’t brave enough.

The last letter Kurt receives before Blaine is due home is only three words long. Three little words that nearly make Kurt drop the letter in the driveway.

Courage.

Love,
Blaine