“Do you… want to?” John gestures weakly toward the television without tearing his gaze away. He has the remote control in hand, and is gripping it so hard his knuckles are almost white.
Rodney flicks his gaze toward the news, dropping his bag by the door, shucking off his coat and kicking shoes out of the way. John can’t look at him. “What, go stand around the civic center in the demonstration-of-the-week with a bunch of undergrads with too much time on their hands and unwashed hippies who likely don’t even know what it is they’re protesting – are you aware that it is, in fact, raining?” John feels vaguely ill, and turns up the volume a little, watching the newscaster – huddled under her umbrella in a suit, smiling a little as she reports into the microphone.
There’s a long moment before Rodney says anything. “What? Wait, what? I mean, are you asking me—“
“Yeah.” John swallows and finally looks up at Rodney, rain in his hair, jaw working, confused and flushed and – and a little frightened, too, in the corners of his mouth and restless hands grabbing for the arm of the couch, and then for John, to kiss him desperate and fierce. Rodney still tastes like the rainfall, the musty wet smell of pine and eucalyptus stuck to his skin, leaning closer and tightening his grip on John’s shoulder as their lips part, messy and perfect. Rodney pulls back first, breathing heavily, kissing John again, lightly – once, twice, three times more – and resting their foreheads together.
His eyes are closed for what seems like a very long time, but John waits, unmoving, until they open – a sudden shock of blue – and Rodney answers.
“Okay. All right. Yes.”