Last First Kiss by Nny
Rodney's first first kiss hadn't been with April Bingham at all. That was just what he'd told Jeannie, his friends at school, most of her friends too - because Rodney didn't have all that many friends when it came down to it, but did have a tendency to over share and a piece of enormous and important news to let out. After all this was April Bingham, she of the blonde hair and the cute retainer, she of the not entirely embarrassing math scores and practically-a-cheerleader older sister. News like that was worth conveying to anyone and everyone, up to and including the woman who came 'round to fix his mother's hair. Friends outside of school though, not so much with the sharing, since mostly that came down to Peter from across the street.
Peter, who'd been the Real First First Kiss.
The thing about Peter was that he was all the kinds of awesome that Rodney wasn't supposed to like, any more. Peter liked snowball fighting, and action figures, and building castles in the sky filled with teams of superheroes - superheroes that Rodney's team could kick the asses of six ways to Sunday, no matter what Peter said. The thing about Peter was that he never once asked Rodney to do his homework for him, never asked him to join the chess club or help him with his science fair project, never called him a dork or a geek or a nerd, not even once, not even kidding.
Rodney's first first kiss, he'd been more aware of the bruise forming on his elbow from where they'd fought over the Spiderman comic hard enough to fall off the bed. He'd been more aware of Peter's sweaty hand wrapped tightly enough around his wrist that he was pretty sure it was cutting off the circulation. The kiss itself was kind of indifferent, wet and weird-tasting and abruptly ended when Rodney noticed just how hard Peter was clutching the Spiderman comic because didn't he know how to treat them at all?
It was remembered, though, for the lack of expectation. For the way Peter had never expected him to be anything other than precisely himself; and somehow that made it better than all the other first kisses, practised and hot and normal-tasting as they might be. Rodney's memories of the best kiss always smelled like body-warmed newsprint and felt like acceptance.
Weird, then, that his Last First Kiss (it'd better be the last, Sheppard, because he didn't have the patience to start all over again), had reflected it almost entirely: the way Sheppard's - John's - mouth had curled into a smirk as he used the extra height and preternatural bendiness to keep the comic out of Rodney's reach; the sharp inhale as Rodney noticed quite how close they were standing and the way it drained all the green from John's eyes and replaced it with dark, dark pupil; almost in the way it wasn't indifferent, not even slightly, not even at all.
Again with the acceptance, the smell of body-warmed newsprint mingling with ocean-fresh breeze, only this time Rodney couldn't give a good goddamn about the proper care of comics as John pressed him down, as he felt the pages crinkling under his back.
Peter, who'd been the Real First First Kiss.
The thing about Peter was that he was all the kinds of awesome that Rodney wasn't supposed to like, any more. Peter liked snowball fighting, and action figures, and building castles in the sky filled with teams of superheroes - superheroes that Rodney's team could kick the asses of six ways to Sunday, no matter what Peter said. The thing about Peter was that he never once asked Rodney to do his homework for him, never asked him to join the chess club or help him with his science fair project, never called him a dork or a geek or a nerd, not even once, not even kidding.
Rodney's first first kiss, he'd been more aware of the bruise forming on his elbow from where they'd fought over the Spiderman comic hard enough to fall off the bed. He'd been more aware of Peter's sweaty hand wrapped tightly enough around his wrist that he was pretty sure it was cutting off the circulation. The kiss itself was kind of indifferent, wet and weird-tasting and abruptly ended when Rodney noticed just how hard Peter was clutching the Spiderman comic because didn't he know how to treat them at all?
It was remembered, though, for the lack of expectation. For the way Peter had never expected him to be anything other than precisely himself; and somehow that made it better than all the other first kisses, practised and hot and normal-tasting as they might be. Rodney's memories of the best kiss always smelled like body-warmed newsprint and felt like acceptance.
Weird, then, that his Last First Kiss (it'd better be the last, Sheppard, because he didn't have the patience to start all over again), had reflected it almost entirely: the way Sheppard's - John's - mouth had curled into a smirk as he used the extra height and preternatural bendiness to keep the comic out of Rodney's reach; the sharp inhale as Rodney noticed quite how close they were standing and the way it drained all the green from John's eyes and replaced it with dark, dark pupil; almost in the way it wasn't indifferent, not even slightly, not even at all.
Again with the acceptance, the smell of body-warmed newsprint mingling with ocean-fresh breeze, only this time Rodney couldn't give a good goddamn about the proper care of comics as John pressed him down, as he felt the pages crinkling under his back.