.ficlet: Sound of Walking Barefoot
Just a small, quiet piece for dogeared, who wanted boys in sweaters for her ficlet prompt. Nantucket AU. *curls up*
SOUND OF WALKING BAREFOOT
One October morning, John drags Rodney out of bed - their nice, warm bed - and takes him on a forced march down the beach. On their way out the door, Rodney casts a longing, envious look at the cat, who is curled up in the warmth of the corner behind the television.
The wind whips down the shoreline, scattering sand. The sea rose bushes, stripped bare, shiver in their hiding places under the dunes. When he breathes in, Rodney can smell salt and the chill that comes down from the northeast, and out in the sound the wind has made the water a chaos of waves.
“You do realize we’re the only people crazy enough to be out on a day like this, right?” The beach’s case of umbrella leprosy has cleared, no screaming kids, no sunbathing girls for John to flirt with to annoy Rodney to the point of kissing him in public. A lone gull lands at the high-tide mark, is briefly the only other living thing on the beach before it flies screaming away. “Wait, you’re the only person crazy enough to be out here, seeing as you made me come.”
“I like it like this,” John says, tugging at the collar of his turtleneck. Rodney stares at the patch of skin below John’s ear, where the collar brushes up to hide it. That skin is soft although it overlays the strong curve of John’s neck, and no matter where they are - bed, kitchen, whaling museum - it’s warm and tastes like salt and smells like John.
“Quiet,” John continues. His sweatered arm brushes against Rodney’s, soft organic rasp of black wool and green. The sand rasps, too, under bare feet, still damp from the tide.
“Hm.” The sand slows their progress over the beach, slows everything to that awkward shuffle - thought, the pace of words, everything except the wind, which rushes through John’s hair to dishevel it even more. John pulls at his collar again.
“Stop that,” Rodney grunts. Distracting, John’s skin, the line of his neck, covered up by his collar - “Come here.”
John comes with a tolerant smirk, allows Rodney to push his head to the side, to push his collar down and away and find that small stretch of skin, familiar salt-scent and John, the tautness of it over muscle. A small corner of warmth in the wind, though the curve of John’s body shelters him from some of it now, and his breath across Rodney’s cheek is warm, too.
John tugs on a loose yarn on the cuff of Rodney’s sweater, finds the dropped stitch at the hem and his fingers sneak inside, under wool, the cotton of Rodney’s t-shirt to the skin beneath, faintest touch along his belly as he leans in to kiss Rodney’s mouth, and Rodney shivers.
“You cold?” John asks, and in the light, the grey light, his eyes wear white flecks like the sea.
“No,” Rodney says, fingers along John’s jaw at the border of collar and flesh. “I’m okay.”
-end-
SOUND OF WALKING BAREFOOT
One October morning, John drags Rodney out of bed - their nice, warm bed - and takes him on a forced march down the beach. On their way out the door, Rodney casts a longing, envious look at the cat, who is curled up in the warmth of the corner behind the television.
The wind whips down the shoreline, scattering sand. The sea rose bushes, stripped bare, shiver in their hiding places under the dunes. When he breathes in, Rodney can smell salt and the chill that comes down from the northeast, and out in the sound the wind has made the water a chaos of waves.
“You do realize we’re the only people crazy enough to be out on a day like this, right?” The beach’s case of umbrella leprosy has cleared, no screaming kids, no sunbathing girls for John to flirt with to annoy Rodney to the point of kissing him in public. A lone gull lands at the high-tide mark, is briefly the only other living thing on the beach before it flies screaming away. “Wait, you’re the only person crazy enough to be out here, seeing as you made me come.”
“I like it like this,” John says, tugging at the collar of his turtleneck. Rodney stares at the patch of skin below John’s ear, where the collar brushes up to hide it. That skin is soft although it overlays the strong curve of John’s neck, and no matter where they are - bed, kitchen, whaling museum - it’s warm and tastes like salt and smells like John.
“Quiet,” John continues. His sweatered arm brushes against Rodney’s, soft organic rasp of black wool and green. The sand rasps, too, under bare feet, still damp from the tide.
“Hm.” The sand slows their progress over the beach, slows everything to that awkward shuffle - thought, the pace of words, everything except the wind, which rushes through John’s hair to dishevel it even more. John pulls at his collar again.
“Stop that,” Rodney grunts. Distracting, John’s skin, the line of his neck, covered up by his collar - “Come here.”
John comes with a tolerant smirk, allows Rodney to push his head to the side, to push his collar down and away and find that small stretch of skin, familiar salt-scent and John, the tautness of it over muscle. A small corner of warmth in the wind, though the curve of John’s body shelters him from some of it now, and his breath across Rodney’s cheek is warm, too.
John tugs on a loose yarn on the cuff of Rodney’s sweater, finds the dropped stitch at the hem and his fingers sneak inside, under wool, the cotton of Rodney’s t-shirt to the skin beneath, faintest touch along his belly as he leans in to kiss Rodney’s mouth, and Rodney shivers.
“You cold?” John asks, and in the light, the grey light, his eyes wear white flecks like the sea.
“No,” Rodney says, fingers along John’s jaw at the border of collar and flesh. “I’m okay.”
-end-