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Eureka

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The world is diffused with blue and gold, honey-sweet and timeless.

Limbs heavy as wet clothes and he thinks the light tastes like seawater, but he's not sure of anything right now.

He can feel Athosian mead heavy in his belly, his mouth nostalgic for the dull honeysuckle taste of it.

He walks, rocks, and stumbles down a hallway. He doesn't know where he's going, but he thinks he's headed in the direction of his quarters.

The lights are spinning like fireworks, he's sure of that, and he falls over. The floor is cooler anyway, and he tells himself that's why he fell. He bumped his funny bone on the way down, and laughs at the feeling, like ants.

Laughing feels good, so he does it some more.

He sings to himself between giggles, Under the sea, under the sea!

The lights go dark and he doesn't notice.

We like it better, down where it's wetter, take it from me! John finishes singing and trails off into giggles.

John, says the shape above him. Are you insane?

Oh, it's Rodney! John thinks. He smiles and squints, and sure enough, it's Rodney McKay. He looks worried. No, John knows, He looks angry. He always looks angry.

Whatsa matter, Meredith? John giggles, he made a funny. Rodney slaps his cheek a little, tries to snap him out of it. John tries to slap back but his hands are too heavy.

Rodney says, Did they spike your drink or something?

Rodney says, Because I've never known anyone to get this drunk after two mugs of beer.

Rodney says, What kind of soldier are you?

John knows the answer to this one.

The best kind! He smiles, all preschooler, and grabs the back of Rodney's neck with both hands to anchor himself against the spinning hallway.

Rodney snorts a laugh and quirks the corner of his mouth in a frown.

Wow, you're really gone right now, huh?

John wants to know what the corner of Rodney's mouth tastes like.

Hey, John stage whispers, Your eyes are really, really, really, reallyreallyreally, John takes a breath, blue.

Rodney rolls them.

Rodney says, Acute observation, Colonel Sheppard. He tries to pry John's arms off him.

No, John says, I mean it, and he pulls Rodney down, licks the corner of his mouth.

Tastes like sarcasm. He blinks at Rodney, catlike and lazy.

He likes the taste of sarcasm, almost as much as he likes the taste of Rodney. He takes another swipe of his tongue, but his aim is off, and he ends up licking a big stripe across Rodney's lips, which part as he inhales sharply.

Oh, hey, that was nice. For a second there, John caught fragments of something bitter and strange. This time, he doesn't even aim.

Rodney makes a strange sound and opens his lips a little wider, lets John pull him closer. Ah, John sighs in his big, fuzzy head, Rodney tastes like Science!

Science tastes like lab tables and stale coffee and metal and plastic. Science tastes like mornings wasted cowered over a laptop, like a mouth warm and sweet and wet, and ideas, and discoveries.

John mumbles against Rodney's lips, Eureka!

Rodney scrambles back, unhinges John's leech-like hold from around his neck.

Rodney says, I, I shouldn't.

Rodney says, You're drunk, you don't know what you're doing.

Rodney says, You probably won't even remember this in the morning.

Rodney says, And you kiss like a golden retriever!

John says, Then call me a 'good boy' and give me a treat. He likes the way the light catches Rodney's eyes, he likes the way Rodney tastes. He thinks he's always thought so, but he's not thinking or feeling very straight.

Rodney growls low in his throat and something snaps inside John like a rubber band.

Rodney hauls John to his feet and pins him to the wall before he can find his balance and lose it.

And then Rodney is everywhere.

Fingers, callous-worn, type messages on John's skin and slide, point-and-click in the hollows of his neck, the notches of his spine, and that sensitive spot just behind his ear.

Everything stops spinning and zooms in, focuses on this point of touch and feel, like Rodney is his axis.

Rodney braces John's wrists against the wall above his head with one hand, for a second, and then that hand is running a fingernail from the apex of his wrist to the edge of his shoulder, a line of ice sparking every nerve.

John writhes, just a little bit, but he likes this warm weight like a bed against his chest, likes this heartbeat matching his. He's almost lulled to sugar-drenched sleep but Rodney nibbles his jaw and he wakes up enough to stick his thigh between Rodney's, to shift slow-like.

Rodney gasps into his neck as his hips jerk forward reflex-fast. He moans again, slowly rubbing against John's leg, and his voice reverberates through John's body like a fighter jet's engine.

John wants to touch Rodney but can't, his wrists still in Rodney's grasp. So he lazily archs his back just as Rodney rolls his hips forward, too much pressure, not enough friction.

It's like electricity jumping the wires.

Rodney drops his wrists and shoves his entire weight into John, runs his freed hands under John's shirt, warmwarmwarm skin, trails his nails ever-so-lightly along his ribcage.

John, hands free, reacts by hissing and sliding his hands down the front of Rodney's pants.

Rodney's hips jerk forward so fast he almost falls. He's breathing heavily, coffee-breath and a touch of mead spiking John's nostrils, and he finds Rodney's mouth again and bites his lower lip until he tastes the copper-spark of blood.

Rodney says, Get your pants off now.

John says, You first.

Before Rodney can react, John slips to his knees and unfastens Rodney's BDUs, tugs them down his hips, and slips his numb mouth over Rodney's cock.

The alcohol relaxed not only his reflexes but his muscles, and Rodney begins to enjoy that fact as John swallows him whole.

Rodney squeezes his eyes shut and braces his forearms on the wall, and tries not to break John's jaw with his thrusts.

But John doesn't seem to mind.

He lets Rodney fuck his mouth, eyes relaxed closed. He looks like he's sleeping but Rodney feels the quick flutter of his tongue and the hint of teeth behind it and he knows John's as awake as a drunken man can be.

John feels like his body is exploding, nerves lighting up all over, pleasure erupting in his chest, his belly.

Rodney's hips start jerking erratically and John pulls away.

Rodney barely manages to say, John, what are you-, dropping to his knees in front of him.

John smiles half-lidded eyes and unzips his own pants, pulls them down as well.

Then John leans so far into Rodney that they both fall over, and now, woah, they're touching in more ways, cocks sliding against each other, hypersensitive and sweat/spit slick, and all they have to do is grind together once, twice, thr-

John almost sobers with the force of their orgasm.

The hallways goes yellow-gold with dawn-bright light and John is suddenly flying, eyes closed, over Rodney. Over everything.

Then slowly he begins to see again.

The first thing to register in his vision is Rodney's dazed-but-slowly-freaking-out face. John feels every point their bodies touch at.

Rodney says, Oh shit.

Rodney rolls out from under John, braces his hands flat on the cool floor, breathes deep or tries to.

John can't see his face but knows it'd look beautiful.

He reaches out, grazes his fingertips across Rodney's shoulder, just barely, and Rodney flinches.

John says, Oh.

They dress in silence and go their separate ways.

***

In the morning, John has the worst hangover of his life.

There are knives, knives like Ronon's, coal-hot and slowly twisting into his brain.

He's blinded by every flicker of light, so he cowers in his dark quarters and tries to stop living.

He hears his doors opening.

He hears footsteps.

Rodney says, John?

He hears a heartbeat like a trapped moth.

He feels lips, light and fish-clammy, on his forehead.

Rodney says, Do you remember?

John can't forget.

John whispers, Woof.

Rodney whispers, Oh God, look, if you want me to leave, I get it, I'll just...just go kill myself or something- John snakes his hand out from under the sheet and grips the closest bit of Rodney he can find. He thinks it's Rodney's hand.

John says, Stay.

So Rodney sighs loudly in relief and squeezes back, pulls away John's sheet- to which John protests loudly with a pitiful whine- hushes John, and slides in next to him.

They rest their foreheads together, Athosian-style but so much more intimate, and breathe the same air.

Rodney whispers, I can't believe you're a two-beer-queer.

John replies, I can't believe that gets you off-OW!

Rodney smacks him, smile-frowning.

John thinks again, Eureka, and means it this time.