Work Text:
He’s done this before, of course. It’s nothing new, nothing groundbreaking, nothing notable, not even complicated: a common physical exercise, a hackneyed expression of affection, a useful release of frustration; an objectively ridiculous thing to do with another human being.
But this is John; and Rodney’s heart is thudding like a teenager and his breath is hitching and his brain is exploding with poetry, racing by in snatches, the couplets tangling eagerly together. He’ll never breathe a word of them later, not to anyone - not even to John - but he’ll remember them.
Focus. Gather his shirt into your hand and pull him close. The soft black fabric yielding under your grasp, his lips meeting yours as equals. Your arms around each other, pressing, urgent, every touch breeding a hunger for more.
Rodney is not going to tell anyone he saw stars. He’s seen stars, real ones - it’s his job, or part of it - and this is not that. It’s not religious, not worship, not the opening of a crack in the universe, so that a whole new perspective is revealed: it’s just … John. John against his skin, John wanting him, him wanting John.
Focus. Gather up your tangled pool of clothes, nesting in each other, and cast them aside. The warm planes of skin, rough and smooth, every inch beloved, urgent for you to touch. Your own skin, hot with impatience; relief blooming at every point of connection.
Rodney loses his words at times like these; no whispered sweet nothings - nor even hot, filthy somethings - but only breath, like a song, faster and slower with the rhythm of the touch; and whatever sounds are called out of him; an instrument, an orchestra. He will say ‘I love you’, later; but he will show it now, in every shift to accommodate John’s needs, every soft sound of pleasure, given and received, every vulnerability he offers, with unflinching trust; he cradles, with infinite care.
Focus. Gather your scattering thoughts, dancing out across the universe, and pull them back into this moment, this union, this normal, ordinary, extraordinary thing. Two bodies flush together, inviting each other in. Your soul, if you have one - that’s not an argument for now - settling into contentment, just to be here and now and this.
Rodney doesn’t know how long he’s wanted this. He thinks that, now, he has always loved John, the force of it washing back through the years and filling them with colour; but, before now, it took years. An instant spark of connection; layered with friendship; layered with argument, sorrow and bitterness; with gratitude, humour, unselfishness, caring, forgiveness. Layered, finally, and always, with love.
Focus. Gather your strength and roll each other over, playfulness at the heart of you, folded in intensity. The push and pull and give and take and tears and laughter, making up who you are, the together of you. Your mouth blowing unexpected raspberries, to a gale of happiness and welcome retaliation.
Rodney has never thought himself a romantic, though he knows all the tropes: the chocolates, the flowers, the candlelight dinners. He forgot that there could be anything underneath the tired gestures, the emptiness of a gift given to fit the situation and not the person. John had slowly teased the romantic out of him, inch by inch. The small touches of thoughtfulness, that work for them and them alone. The rare occasions when soft words form on his tongue and he offers them, sweet and fragile; knowing they’ll be safe.
Focus. Gather his hair in your grip and lose yourself entirely. Nothing in the universe but the two of you, in this long, beautiful moment. Your bodies shuddering together; the feeling that you will never be cold again.
Rodney knows that the world is still outside of their warm cocoon; waiting like a wolf, like an overbearing ocean (but with coffee breaks, if he’s lucky). He knows that the universe is vast and uncaring; that he and John are microscopic particles, of interest only to themselves. He knows that that’s enough.
Focus. Gather him into your arms and let your breaths soften and ease. Every moment matters, but some more than others, and this is one of them, to fold away and keep. Your eyes close and you have never felt so safe and so loved; you hope, more than anything, he feels the same.
He’s done this before. It’s nothing notable, nothing prizewinning, nothing to yell about in the corridors (though he might have to stop himself, anyway, when he remembers this and surges with a burst of happiness and love).
It’s nothing new: but this is John; and that makes all the difference.