John drives up the winding mountain road, windows down a crack. His satellite radio is up loud to cover the noise of the wind, on an old rock station.
The moon disappears into the trees, and he looks at the clock. 3:35 am. Rodney's going to kill him.
He breathes in deep, little cold pinpricks in his lungs but fresh, fresh. Pure like the city's never been.
He pulls up to the hospital, parks in the near-empty parking lot, and turns the music down but not off. He reaches over and puts the passenger seat down flat. He leans back and waits.
Sure enough, not thirty seconds pass before he looks in his rear-view mirror and sees a figure rushing through the darkness, street lamp-lit in a wash of yellow. He closes his eyes.
The passenger door opens and he turns just in time to see Rodney's face, mouth turned down at the corners in impatience, before--
"You're late," Rodney growls, grabs John's tie and yanks him forward into a kiss. It's short but potent, demanding like Rodney. He scrambles into the minuscule back seat and takes off his long white jacket. He looks up to see John still in the drivers' seat.
"Hey. Get your ass back here now." And then John is there, there and everywhere, hands on Rodney's face, ribcage, hips, ass, lips eager and kisses sloppy.
"I've missed you," is all he says.
"God, John, it's only been seven days!" Rodney gasps as John's warm hands, ink-stained and callous-worn creep up under Rodney's shirt and slide along his sides.
It's true. It's Thursday. They do this every week. John doesn't have to be back down the mountain for an hour for his early classes, but he doesn't really leave for three.
"So?" John mouthes the word into Rodney's jaw. Rodney tosses his head back and makes contact with the window.
"Watch your head."
"Ha ha, very funny. It's impossible to move around in this clown car of yours. Why don't you get something bigger?" He fumbles to make contact, body a little chilled from the outside air.
"Like a Volkswagen bus? We can paint hippie symbols on the sides and play John Lennon all the time." John traces a peace sign onto Rodney's chest.
"No, you idiot. Like a Lexus or something. You're one of the top Aerodynamics professors in the state, you can certainly afford it."
"Naw, I like this car," John nibbles Rodney's ear, "It fits in the smallest parking spaces."
"Even if we have to pretend to be contortionists?" To illustrate, Rodney does this little bending maneuver that makes John inhale sharply and press a hand to the window, and the frost and mountain air eeks into his fingertips.
"Especially if we have to pretend to be contortionists. God! Rodney, they must have the wildest parties," he hisses as Rodney does another impossible move, and his hand tenses on the window, leaves little foggy imprints on the glass.
"Damnit," Rodney swears softly, smacks his elbow into the seatbelt buckle.
"Pants. Off. Now," John grunts, claws at Rodney's waistband, slides his thumbs along Rodney's hipbones.
"God, John, you can't, you can't say stuff like that," Rodney's hips rise off the seat and John slides his jeans down to his knees. John practically growls.
Rodney kicks off his jeans the rest of the way and breathes hot hot puffs of air on John's neck, slides his hands down the back of John's pants.
John whines and grinds down into Rodney, the wrinkle-free canvas of his pants against Rodney's groin.
"We need to switch," Rodney tries to say, his knees on clamping either side of John's hips.
"Yeah," and John rolls them, Rodney nearly falling off the seat. There's a seatbelt digging into John's spine but he doesn't let it show. He lifts his hips up off the seat like Rodney before him.
Soon he is as naked as Rodney from the waist down, and they waste no time taking advantage of that fact.
They have their legs entwined, bodies thrusting and sweat-slick, hands dancing and sparking pleasure down their nerves.
And then John goes quieter than the night outside, and Rodney quickly follows with a babbling bit of nonsense and they collapse against one another, closer than they will let anyone else ever get. Rodney hears The Jesus And Mary Chain on his radio.
"Hey, I know this song." And Rodney sings to the irony of the lyrics, "fuck Johnny fuck."
John says, "Later, in the supply closet." Rodney hits him.
"God! If one of my patients woke up and looked out their window?"
"Better than any of the soap operas you get on your TV's."
"Shut up! I'll never be able to look the nurses in the face again, I'll transfer to a hospital in Antarctica or somewhere."
"You wouldn't, you know how much the gas is to come up here every week costs me?"
"Don't be silly. If I move to Antarctica you wouldn't drive down."
John looks at Rodney, really looks at him, grabs his face and kisses him. Movie star kiss, tongue and teeth and lips and really disgusting noises and it lasts for what Rodney thinks is forever but is probably only forty seconds.
When they stop, Rodney's eyes are unfocused and his lips are very very red.
"You know I would." John's hair is so messed up it has its own gravitational force. Rodney comes down, blinks slowly, wakes up.
"I was going to say: you wouldn't drive down, it's across the ocean. Obviously you'd take a plane." John blushes a little bit.
"But go ahead, pretend I don't believe you. Convince me?" He lowers his eyelids, looking a cross between horny and smug, and leans down.