Dude, it's like it's in a whole other LANGUAGE.
So, I was reading fandom_secrets and you know what? None of the manga stuff makes a lick of sense to me. Same/uke? Yaoi? And the drawing style is often so similar I have no idea if I'm seeing stuff all on one comic/series or what
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Rodney fixates on the motion and the lip underneath, pink and curved and plump and catching the light in a disturbingly familiar way.
He's run his thumb over a white, curving mouth just like that, but now it's flush with life and flattening into a distressingly thin, nervous line.
Swaying slightly, Rodney gropes for the counter to support him, a small, pained noise escaping his throat. He rubs his eyes roughly, takes a deep breath and decides to give reality another try.
The man who looks just like his statue looks at him sheepishly, pink tongue darting out to moisten pinker lip and a flash of white teeth biting down on the lush...
...cold marble unyielding beneath Rodney's mouth. He choked a sigh as he climbed off the scaffolding. Such life and beauty and barely contained potential, all for a stupid clothing store...never appreciate John...customers ogling him. Criminal. Insane.
"You shouldn't go," he mumbled as he leaned his head against John's leg, hand patting one perfect marble knee. "Not to them."
The man, the hallucination, the statue - statue he started calling "John" weeks ago - is standing in his kitchen, barely wearing a canvas drape and nervously biting the sexiest mouth he's ever, he's ever....
Genius or not, Rodney's brain cannot wrap around this. He slithers, unconscious, to the floor.
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He also has John, his former statue John, curled sitting next to him on the couch, wearing a pair of Rodney's boxers and plowing through a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and staring raptly at Rodney's TV. Cartoon characters are shrieking and chasing each other with explosives in high-definition and that... Rodney wonders when it happened that the screams and synthesized soundtrack could not possibly make his life any more surreal than it already is.
Probably, he thinks, when he'd woken up and John had been right there, bending over him in elegant folds of limbs and Rodney's canvas, asking of Rodney wanted coffee and if he wanted to get off the floor any time soon. Rodney had accepted the help and the coffee, which had been terrible, but what had gotten him, snagged him somewhere in his throat so he couldn't breathe, had been realizing John's eyes were green.
Green eyes, Rodney thinks dully, staring at John and his milk-smeared mouth from under his icepack. Why green? And dark hair and skin painted soft gold by outdoors, by life, when he'd been made to glitter under quartz and fluorescents. Lines at the corner of his eyes when he winces for a character who just got blown up.
And the notch in his lower lip, result of a moment's carelessness that Rodney hadn't been able to bring himself to smooth back into perfection. He remembers running a finger over John's lip, feeling his skin catch on unexpected roughness, and deciding, even as he thought of ways to fix a rare mistake, I'll leave it.
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MOAR.
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Eyes up, McKay. Eyelashes. Rodney didn't remember carving eyelashes, because my god, so fiddly, not that Rodney would ever back away from that, but, just, no. You didn't. Unless you were the Thomas Kinkaid of sculpture or Jeff Koons (that blight) or something; it was an affectation.
John's eyelashes are black and thick and fan over his cheeks when he looks down to pour more Cheerios into his bowl.
"You sure you don't want some?" John asks, turning those remarkable eyes on him. His eyebrows do a squinchy thing that makes little wrinkles appear on his forehead. It is strangely attractive - everything John does is strangely attractive - down to the milk dewing the cleft in his lip.
"Rodney?"
Rodney blinks and looks at John's whole face, which is slightly flushed. He shakes his head and winces. John winces in sympathy.
Suddenly horrified, Rodney says, "Don't tell me it hurts, all that..." He mimes striking a chisel. That would mean that every statue he's ever done has...oh my god, he's some sort of sadistic marble beater...
"Hey, Rodney, no." John says, his spoon clattering in his bowl. He touches Rodney's arm lightly. "No, just the opposite. It was like you were digging me out. Making me free."
Rodney sags in relief. "Ohthankgod," he sighs.
John's fingers brush over the inside of his wrist. Rodney hears the clink of his spoon again and breathes easier, until it hits him again that this is John and John's hand was on his wrist and John is eating his Cheerios and wearing his boxers and warm, living, skin and muscle and...
"How are you even here?" Rodney wails. "How. What? You? I just. Pfft. And? How?"
John shrugs and fidgets a little. "I didn't want to go," he mumbles to his cereal bowl.
"Excuse me?" Rodney's voice breaks with incredulity.
Glaring at him stubbornly, John grits out, "I didn't want to go, Rodney. And you want me to stay. I heard you."
Rodney gawps at him, icewater from his pack dripping onto his lap. "What?" he whispers.
John's jaw clenches. "I made a wish," he says threateningly to the television. "I asked to stay."
Rodney's head is starting to feel a little swimmy again. "You asked to stay?"
John nods around a mouthful of cereal.
"Why?" Rodney's throat is so tight he can hardly get the word out.
John ducks his head, flushing, his expression fond and shy and exasperated. "Rodney," he whines.
Rodney waits and watches John eat, watches one expression after another chase over his mobile, beautiful face. Watches the play of his muscles shift under skin that looks so touchable. Watches his hands use the spoon and hold the bowl and can hardly breathe.
John shifts slightly, his thigh bumping against Rodney's shin. He leaves it there, warm and heavy, as if Rodney wasn't going to notice him sitting there.
"You wanted to stay. Here. With me." Rodney says after saying it in head a couple of times. It comes out shakier than he intended.
Rolling his eyes, John says lightly, "'Course I did." Rodney doesn't miss the flush that washes up his neck and makes his ears (oh god those ears) glow red. He watches, fascinated, as John's spoon-hand shakes, scattering drops of milk down his chin.
"Stop staring at me, okay?" John grumbles, face flushing even darker. "'M watching cartoons, and you're starting to weird me out." The corner of his mouth twitches in a stifled smile.
Bewildered and headachy and strangely, frighteningly happy, Rodney reaches out, takes the cereal bowl and leans over to lick the milk off John's lower lip.
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And that...
"Mmmmph mmmph!" Rodney says, which is oh my God whimpered into John's mouth. It kills him to pull away but he has to, has to because, "oh my God, you're... I made you! I could... you could be subconsciously compelled to accede to my every whim and I'm not--I'm desperate and it's very possible I've completely lost my mind but I don't, I don't want you to call me 'master' or kiss me because the fact I'm your creator means you exist to serve me and, and--and do things like... like kissing because I say you--"
A hand closes over his mouth, cutting off you have to so Rodney's lips move against the soft, salty curve of John's palm and fingers. "Rodney." Impatience sharpens the hazy green of John's eyes. "I wanted to stay," John says, nodding slightly with each word; Rodney nods back in echo. "I wanted to stay, not be mindless. There's a difference. Okay?"
And John's mouth closes over his to steal Rodney's agreement, inexpert but learning quickly, his hand curving over the arc of Rodney's shoulder, the echo of Rodney that one day, when he'd given into impulse and kissed unresponsive lips and licked away the dust.
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He's going to need days to map out all of John; witness every miraculous inch.
A part of his brain is still wringing its hands at this impossibility, this miracle, and muttering about dire consequenses but the majority of of Rodney's brain is firmly turned off, turned on and given over to little explosions of joy.
He can make John happy, it seems, by scratching his nails lightly against his scalp; it makes him hum and shiver against Rodney's lips. Stroking his back and sides in long strokes wrings a groan out of John's throat that catches something in Rodney's chest.
John looks down at him, eyes heavy lidded, mouth swollen and red and smiling.
"What?" he whispers. "Whacha thinking?"
"This is the first time anyone's touched you."
"Rodney," John rolls his eyes. "You touch me all the time."
Rodney cups his cheek. "You know what I mean."
John looks nervous for maybe a nanosecond, and then he's smiling again, but Rodney knows every centimeter of that face. Feeling a little more in control of himself , he traces the funny bump on John's nose that insisted on being made that way.
He gives John a look. "This is the first time I am touching you and you can - his mouth goes dry as he thinks it - you are touching me back. And the couch springs are digging into my back."
He can't stop touching John's face, which is grounding him while he prepares to say the craziest thing he's ever said to a statue. He traces the sharp line of John's jaw and the softness of his lips and looks up into his still-surprising eyes.
"Come to bed with me," Rodney whispers.
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Thanks, very much, really.
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