Untitled (no. 1)
They slip into the cool of the museum some afternoons; today, Rodney stares wide-eyed at the finback skeleton, the arch of massive ribs, the way the bones of one fluke reach toward them, goes quiet and awed until John brushes a hand over his spine and murmurs in Rodney's ear that he wants to hear about the physics of the Fresnel lens again, starts to pull him away to the lighthouse exhibit. But Rodney's turning around, reeling him in by the hips, and here John had thought he was all contemplative, but Rodney's apparently gone from thinky to horny just like that, and now he's grabby and impatient and hissing, "God, god, you drive me crazy," into John's mouth before he kisses him, hard and deep, right there in the dim shadow of a long-dead whale. John breaks away to breathe, and Rodney's already leaning back in for more, but it's not like they're the only ones here, so John holds him back, pants, "Hey, hey, c'mon, let's go home."
John guns the Wagoneer so fast over the cobblestones that the thing sounds like it's going to rattle apart, but then they're on smooth road, and John slants a look over at Rodney, sees the way his cheeks are flushed, sees the tendons in his arm standing out from the way he has it braced against the dash, and he clenches his own hands tighter on the steering wheel until he can feel the ache in his knuckles, stares straight ahead and gives her a little more gas, and the trees and houses are a blur until they're pulling into the driveway, kicking up a spray of clam shells. John tumbles out the door and hauls Rodney inside, and they toe off their shoes and stumble in a graceless heap on the couch.
John gets his hands under Rodney's shirt right away, spans his fingers over the dip of Rodney's back, where his skin's hot and a little sweaty, touches like he's been wanting to, and god, Rodney's hot all over, broad and solid and bleeding heat into John, pressing him into the cushions and breathing hotly against his neck, licking and sucking until John's groaning helplessly and grinding up. Rodney mouths his throat and unbuttons John's shorts, and John can hear himself saying "Yeah, yeah, yeah," over and over, thrusting into Rodney's big, hot hand.
"So, was it the whale? All that scrimshaw?" John asks, after he's wrangled them side by side on the couch, sleepy and sated. Rodney shoves him halfheartedly and gets red (oh, sure, now he's embarrassed), says, "Idiot. It's you. Just, you." And John grins, kisses his swollen mouth, his hot cheek, his sweaty temple. Rodney's skin tastes salty, like he's been swimming in the ocean, and John breathes him in, says, "Yeah, you too."