LOOKY WHAT I'VE GOT FOR YOU!!!
I'm still taking suggestions for titles . . . by which I mean, actually, looking for titles, dammit.
Anybody still reading this? I'm just delighted that I managed to cobble together this section. Strangely, it came together pretty easily once I let Rodney do what he wanted, which was come out to John, even though it was four chapters earlier than planned. Oh, well. The characters *will* have it their way, not mine.
Oh, most beloved and patient of flists, how I do love you all.
Okay, flattery over, on to the fic!
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9 / ?
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John’s hangover lasted for a record four days.
He swore he’d never drink whiskey again after puking up what felt like all of his internal organs in the first thirty-six hours.
On the third day, he peeled away the Popsicle sticks and adhesive tape that were splinting three fingers on his left hand. The swelling had gone down considerably, and as he flexed the joints with care, John could tell that nothing was broken.
His torso was a mass of black-and-blue bruising that ached dully when he breathed too deeply, and yards of two-inch-wide sports tape had been strapped snugly around his ribs.
At the back of John’s skull was a tender area that felt like there were stitches in his scalp, beneath his hair, and a broad scrape across one cheekbone and part of his forehead.
Lifting his right arm higher than a few inches made it feel like needles were being driven into his shoulder socket, and John couldn’t keep back the whimper of pain, but he had enough experience with injuries on the football field to know that he hadn’t managed to dislocate anything.
His memories of the night were a blur of whiskey and cigarettes and the vague recollection of warm hands, soft lips, and the sound of angry voices shouting.
It wasn’t his first blackout after drinking too much, so John shrugged and resigned himself to a few hours of memory loss.
On the fifth day, Rodney showed up on the doorstep.
John heard his voice before he saw him, blond head peeking around the corner of the house and zeroing in on where John was sprawled in the shade, leaning back on his elbows, a little uncomfortably, against the concrete steps to the back patio. Rodney looked startled at first, but quickly set his jaw and marched into the yard, towering over John with his arms akimbo.
“You look like you’ve been hit by a bus,” he said bluntly.
John shrugged. “I guess.”
Rodney sighed, and flopped down gracelessly next to him. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
John dragged his smoke before he answered. “Dunno,” he said on the exhale. “Can’t remember.”
He could *hear* Rodney roll his eyes. “Oh, that’s just great,” the other boy hissed. “It’s not enough that you’ve pickled your liver and are in the process of putrefying your lungs - no, now you’ve gone ahead and gotten *brain damaged*.”
“I blacked out,” John offered. “It happens when I drink too much.”
Rodney was chewing furiously on his lower lip. Abruptly, as if he’d made up his mind about something, he turned sideways to face John. “I found you face down in someone’s flower bed with a garden hose wrapped around your throat,” he said bluntly. “There was blood everywhere. I almost couldn’t tell it was you.”
John winced. “I think I’m glad I don’t remember that,” he said quietly.
Rodney’s laugh was humorless. “I wish I didn’t,” he snapped, before continuing, “It gets better. You were babbling, apologies mostly, in French for some bizarre reason, and then you said, *But he was only kissing me*.”
In the middle of ashing his cigarette, John froze. It took a few seconds before he could move again, breathe enough to snort and force himself to say, “You must have heard me wrong.”
“And you must think I’m stupid,” Rodney fired back. “Or deaf, and since I’m neither, you can start explaining why you didn’t have the good judgment to do that sort of thing behind closed and preferably locked doors, because, my God, people will *hurt* you for liking to kiss other boys, which is *obviously* what happened to you and you really do have all the sense of self-preservation of the average *jellyfish*, don’t you?”
John blinked. “Did you breathe at all?” he asked, bemused.
Rodney threw his hands in the air. “Oh! Fine! Just completely dismiss my perfectly *rational* concern out of hand like you always do!”
He leaned forward and poked John in the chest, hard. “I can’t believe you’re actually this stupid. Have I been wasting my time with you all summer?”
“Um, ow?” John said weakly. Rodney leaned in, and when John tried to ward him off with the hand that still held the lit cigarette, Rodney seized his wrist and pinned it to the concrete.
He gritted his teeth. “Let go of me.”
“Not until you stop acting like a moron,” Rodney told him. “I wouldn’t care if you liked to wear lipstick and satin and attend the cotillion, but be *careful*. It doesn’t take a genius - such as myself, for example - to realize that! Doors, John! Closed and locked!”
“Right, because it’s so disgusting that nobody should see it,” John snarled. He jerked his hand free and tried to ignore the sudden coolness, now that it was removed from Rodney’s heat.
His smoke had burned down to nearly nothing, and he pitched the butt into the neatly shorn grass, unreasonably annoyed that he hadn’t even had the chance to finish it.
Rodney looked like he wanted to smack John on the back of the head. “No, you idiot, because you’re going to keep get beaten up when people find out,” he retorted. “How many times do you think I want to keep admitting you to the McKay infirmary?”
“Didn’t realize I was so much trouble,” John said bitterly. He jumped to his feet, frustrated and angry because, Jesus, even Rodney couldn’t stand to be around him. “Maybe you just shouldn’t bother anymore.”
“For the love of *God*!” Rodney shrieked. “A Madagascar tree lemur has more capacity for the logical progression of thought than you do! I’m trying to tell you that I’ve already been through this! And unless you really *do* want to die in a spectacularly painful and especially embarrassing way, you need to start keeping these things on the QT!”
John turned back. “What?”
Rodney was pale under his summer tan, but he lifted his chin defiantly. “I’ve - I’ve been through it. Already. You know.”
John blinked. “Because you’re - um. Like me?”
Rodney looked irritated. “Well, if by ‘like me’, you mean, *gay*, then, yeah - that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Although really, I prefer to define myself by the Kinsey scale, because I do consider myself technically bisexual, it’s just that so far I’ve had better luck with boys than with girls, and . . . um, maybe that’s not something we need to discuss right now.”
He peered at John and added in a different tone, “You might want to sit down. You look a little peaked.”
“Uh, sure,” John said faintly, and dropped down to the steps as if he’d been poleaxed.
In the distance, waves rolled and crashed on the shore, and overhead, seagulls rode the winds and called to each other. John heard voices coming from the kitchen as at least a couple of the guys started banging around. It sounded like someone was making breakfast.
Rodney jittered uneasily by his side for a few moments before finally bursting out with a hasty torrent of muttered words. “You don’t know what it was like, seeing you like that. I thought you were dead.”
John slanted him a sideways glance.
“Don’t look at me like that!” Rodney snapped. “I was leaving work and was on my way to get some ice cream, it’s the only reason I was on that street at all, it’s not like I was following you or anything!”
John felt a corner of his mouth tugging upwards in a smile, and after a moment, Rodney deflated. “Oh, yes, all right, fine, I *might* have seen you walking, or more accurately, *lurching*, with some guy before I went into the ice cream parlor, and *maybe* after I came out I might have checked down a couple of side streets, if by checking you mean walking every single one in a grid search pattern to make sure you weren’t being robbed or something, and just *maybe* when I found blood I might have *understandably* become a little upset and started tracking you. So what?”
He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest defensively.
John knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t help himself. God, Rodney had followed him. He still gave a damn about John, still cared if something happened to him. Jesus, the guy had put him back together from what seemed to be some pretty serious injuries from the other night, and John hadn’t even thanked him.
He was just about to open his mouth when the screen door slammed open and Don yelled, “Who wants omelets?”
John turned at the interruption and began to ask, “Who’s cooking?” when Don saw that he had company.
“Oh, hey, you must be Rodney,” he said, shouldering through the door and offering his hand. When Rodney hesitantly reached up and shook it, Don yanked him to his feet and shoved him inside, one big hand on his shoulder. “Whatcha want in your omelet?”
“Um,” Rodney said faintly, casting a frantic look back.
John jumped to his feet and hurried inside. “Where the hell’s everyone else?” he demanded, his heart racing. Christ, there was no fucking way he was going to let Rodney in that house if that asshole Mike or that little shit Troy were sleeping in, even if Don *was* trying to be cool.
Don grinned. “Relax, Shep,” he said easily, “I told them Ronnie was cooking. They all took off pretty fucking quick.”
John sagged with relief against the screen door, supporting himself with one hand and trying not to look like it. “Then give me a Western with cheese, and I’ll make hash browns if you haven’t started them already.”
Don tossed him the bag of frozen Tater Tots and jerked his head at the cabinets. “You think you can handle it?”
John was practically lightheaded with joy from his unexpected reprieve. He wasn’t going to have to worry about the other guys getting in his face again, Don was making breakfast, and everything was cool.
Rodney was here, in *his* house for once, and he still wanted to be friends.
And best of all . . . he liked boys, too.
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Anybody still reading this? I'm just delighted that I managed to cobble together this section. Strangely, it came together pretty easily once I let Rodney do what he wanted, which was come out to John, even though it was four chapters earlier than planned. Oh, well. The characters *will* have it their way, not mine.
Oh, most beloved and patient of flists, how I do love you all.
Okay, flattery over, on to the fic!
************************
9 / ?
************************
John’s hangover lasted for a record four days.
He swore he’d never drink whiskey again after puking up what felt like all of his internal organs in the first thirty-six hours.
On the third day, he peeled away the Popsicle sticks and adhesive tape that were splinting three fingers on his left hand. The swelling had gone down considerably, and as he flexed the joints with care, John could tell that nothing was broken.
His torso was a mass of black-and-blue bruising that ached dully when he breathed too deeply, and yards of two-inch-wide sports tape had been strapped snugly around his ribs.
At the back of John’s skull was a tender area that felt like there were stitches in his scalp, beneath his hair, and a broad scrape across one cheekbone and part of his forehead.
Lifting his right arm higher than a few inches made it feel like needles were being driven into his shoulder socket, and John couldn’t keep back the whimper of pain, but he had enough experience with injuries on the football field to know that he hadn’t managed to dislocate anything.
His memories of the night were a blur of whiskey and cigarettes and the vague recollection of warm hands, soft lips, and the sound of angry voices shouting.
It wasn’t his first blackout after drinking too much, so John shrugged and resigned himself to a few hours of memory loss.
On the fifth day, Rodney showed up on the doorstep.
John heard his voice before he saw him, blond head peeking around the corner of the house and zeroing in on where John was sprawled in the shade, leaning back on his elbows, a little uncomfortably, against the concrete steps to the back patio. Rodney looked startled at first, but quickly set his jaw and marched into the yard, towering over John with his arms akimbo.
“You look like you’ve been hit by a bus,” he said bluntly.
John shrugged. “I guess.”
Rodney sighed, and flopped down gracelessly next to him. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
John dragged his smoke before he answered. “Dunno,” he said on the exhale. “Can’t remember.”
He could *hear* Rodney roll his eyes. “Oh, that’s just great,” the other boy hissed. “It’s not enough that you’ve pickled your liver and are in the process of putrefying your lungs - no, now you’ve gone ahead and gotten *brain damaged*.”
“I blacked out,” John offered. “It happens when I drink too much.”
Rodney was chewing furiously on his lower lip. Abruptly, as if he’d made up his mind about something, he turned sideways to face John. “I found you face down in someone’s flower bed with a garden hose wrapped around your throat,” he said bluntly. “There was blood everywhere. I almost couldn’t tell it was you.”
John winced. “I think I’m glad I don’t remember that,” he said quietly.
Rodney’s laugh was humorless. “I wish I didn’t,” he snapped, before continuing, “It gets better. You were babbling, apologies mostly, in French for some bizarre reason, and then you said, *But he was only kissing me*.”
In the middle of ashing his cigarette, John froze. It took a few seconds before he could move again, breathe enough to snort and force himself to say, “You must have heard me wrong.”
“And you must think I’m stupid,” Rodney fired back. “Or deaf, and since I’m neither, you can start explaining why you didn’t have the good judgment to do that sort of thing behind closed and preferably locked doors, because, my God, people will *hurt* you for liking to kiss other boys, which is *obviously* what happened to you and you really do have all the sense of self-preservation of the average *jellyfish*, don’t you?”
John blinked. “Did you breathe at all?” he asked, bemused.
Rodney threw his hands in the air. “Oh! Fine! Just completely dismiss my perfectly *rational* concern out of hand like you always do!”
He leaned forward and poked John in the chest, hard. “I can’t believe you’re actually this stupid. Have I been wasting my time with you all summer?”
“Um, ow?” John said weakly. Rodney leaned in, and when John tried to ward him off with the hand that still held the lit cigarette, Rodney seized his wrist and pinned it to the concrete.
He gritted his teeth. “Let go of me.”
“Not until you stop acting like a moron,” Rodney told him. “I wouldn’t care if you liked to wear lipstick and satin and attend the cotillion, but be *careful*. It doesn’t take a genius - such as myself, for example - to realize that! Doors, John! Closed and locked!”
“Right, because it’s so disgusting that nobody should see it,” John snarled. He jerked his hand free and tried to ignore the sudden coolness, now that it was removed from Rodney’s heat.
His smoke had burned down to nearly nothing, and he pitched the butt into the neatly shorn grass, unreasonably annoyed that he hadn’t even had the chance to finish it.
Rodney looked like he wanted to smack John on the back of the head. “No, you idiot, because you’re going to keep get beaten up when people find out,” he retorted. “How many times do you think I want to keep admitting you to the McKay infirmary?”
“Didn’t realize I was so much trouble,” John said bitterly. He jumped to his feet, frustrated and angry because, Jesus, even Rodney couldn’t stand to be around him. “Maybe you just shouldn’t bother anymore.”
“For the love of *God*!” Rodney shrieked. “A Madagascar tree lemur has more capacity for the logical progression of thought than you do! I’m trying to tell you that I’ve already been through this! And unless you really *do* want to die in a spectacularly painful and especially embarrassing way, you need to start keeping these things on the QT!”
John turned back. “What?”
Rodney was pale under his summer tan, but he lifted his chin defiantly. “I’ve - I’ve been through it. Already. You know.”
John blinked. “Because you’re - um. Like me?”
Rodney looked irritated. “Well, if by ‘like me’, you mean, *gay*, then, yeah - that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Although really, I prefer to define myself by the Kinsey scale, because I do consider myself technically bisexual, it’s just that so far I’ve had better luck with boys than with girls, and . . . um, maybe that’s not something we need to discuss right now.”
He peered at John and added in a different tone, “You might want to sit down. You look a little peaked.”
“Uh, sure,” John said faintly, and dropped down to the steps as if he’d been poleaxed.
In the distance, waves rolled and crashed on the shore, and overhead, seagulls rode the winds and called to each other. John heard voices coming from the kitchen as at least a couple of the guys started banging around. It sounded like someone was making breakfast.
Rodney jittered uneasily by his side for a few moments before finally bursting out with a hasty torrent of muttered words. “You don’t know what it was like, seeing you like that. I thought you were dead.”
John slanted him a sideways glance.
“Don’t look at me like that!” Rodney snapped. “I was leaving work and was on my way to get some ice cream, it’s the only reason I was on that street at all, it’s not like I was following you or anything!”
John felt a corner of his mouth tugging upwards in a smile, and after a moment, Rodney deflated. “Oh, yes, all right, fine, I *might* have seen you walking, or more accurately, *lurching*, with some guy before I went into the ice cream parlor, and *maybe* after I came out I might have checked down a couple of side streets, if by checking you mean walking every single one in a grid search pattern to make sure you weren’t being robbed or something, and just *maybe* when I found blood I might have *understandably* become a little upset and started tracking you. So what?”
He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest defensively.
John knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t help himself. God, Rodney had followed him. He still gave a damn about John, still cared if something happened to him. Jesus, the guy had put him back together from what seemed to be some pretty serious injuries from the other night, and John hadn’t even thanked him.
He was just about to open his mouth when the screen door slammed open and Don yelled, “Who wants omelets?”
John turned at the interruption and began to ask, “Who’s cooking?” when Don saw that he had company.
“Oh, hey, you must be Rodney,” he said, shouldering through the door and offering his hand. When Rodney hesitantly reached up and shook it, Don yanked him to his feet and shoved him inside, one big hand on his shoulder. “Whatcha want in your omelet?”
“Um,” Rodney said faintly, casting a frantic look back.
John jumped to his feet and hurried inside. “Where the hell’s everyone else?” he demanded, his heart racing. Christ, there was no fucking way he was going to let Rodney in that house if that asshole Mike or that little shit Troy were sleeping in, even if Don *was* trying to be cool.
Don grinned. “Relax, Shep,” he said easily, “I told them Ronnie was cooking. They all took off pretty fucking quick.”
John sagged with relief against the screen door, supporting himself with one hand and trying not to look like it. “Then give me a Western with cheese, and I’ll make hash browns if you haven’t started them already.”
Don tossed him the bag of frozen Tater Tots and jerked his head at the cabinets. “You think you can handle it?”
John was practically lightheaded with joy from his unexpected reprieve. He wasn’t going to have to worry about the other guys getting in his face again, Don was making breakfast, and everything was cool.
Rodney was here, in *his* house for once, and he still wanted to be friends.
And best of all . . . he liked boys, too.
************************