There are two moons on this planet, and they both hang full and low, the light streaming in through the wide balcony, flowing into the bed.
Maybe that’s the explanation, John thinks languidly, as he rests his head on Rodney’s bare chest, feels the scratch of chest hair against his cheek, because they never usually do this off-world. They sometimes share a bed, maybe a brief, chaste kiss, but the opportunities to let their guards down, to just be John and Rodney, are few and far between.
Maybe it was the wine they served at the banquet, sweet, spiced, and warmed, that caused Rodney to pull him close, kiss deeply, wetly, hungrily. Maybe it was the music, the soft candlelight, that made John slip his hand in Rodney’s back pocket, cupping, groping, pulling, greedy and grabby.
Maybe it was Rodney’s laugh, maybe it was John’s hitched breath, that led them to their shared bed, led to mouths and hands and gasps and a tightened, grinding grip that left them both spent, sweat-dampened skin rapidly cooling, skin pebbling under the night’s breeze.
Maybe it was just the moons.
Rodney is waxing on about the moons now, explaining something about the probability of them both being full at once. John listens to the vibrations deep in his chest, pets his hand down Rodney’s belly, fingers slipping lower to card through coarse, sweat-matted pubic hair. John combs his fingers through a few times, enjoys the feeling of the rough texture, the way the hair fluffs up, springy and curled, before his hand slips lower, palm cupping Rodney’s softened cock. It’s stubby now, but still a little chubbed up, foreskin puckered loose and soft around the end.
John toys with it a bit, flops it around in his hands, enjoys the weight and shape, before squeezing the soft flesh a few times. Rodney shivers a bit in pleasure, his hips moving up to meet John’s hand. It’s not sexual, but it is intimate, and more than frenzied sex, more than quiet, chest tightening orgasms, this is what John loves about being with Rodney. The way he can touch, comfortable and curious and without the shame of wanting. Rodney’s own fingers trace light circles across John’s own back, soothing and pleasurable.
He’d never understood his own desire for touch, for skin-warmth, for the tactile pleasure of running the pads of his fingers against downy arms, the drag of small hairs against the grain. For so long he’s lived between famine and feast, between the casual clap of a hand against a shoulder, muffled through clothing, and fast raw fucks, between stiff, arm slapping hugs, over in an instant, and the bite of a fist against his jaw. He’s seen it too in Rodney, the tense hunch, the way he holds himself near others, the way he stumbles under a friendly hand.
John gives Rodney’s cock another squeeze, toys with the edge of the foreskin.
“Having fun?” Rodney asks, amusement lacing his words.
“Mmhm,” John hums, hand tracing back up to trace through the fuzz on Rodney’s belly. “It’s nice to play with someone else’s.”
“You’re nuts.” Rodney replies fondly, and he pets John’s hair, blunt fingers scratching against his scalp.
“Maybe it’s the full moons,” John says, just to hear Rodney huff.
“That’s a myth. Obviously.”
“I don’t know,” John drags out, scratching down Rodney’s chest, “double the moons, double the lunacy.”
Rodney fiddles with his earlobe, traces the helix. “Unless having four high tides a day drives you crazy, I highly doubt that.”
They’re quiet for a few moments, John stroking the fine hairs of Rodney’s inner thigh.
“You know, in some Asian cultures, they used to believe that there was a rabbit on the moon. It made rice cakes, or mochi, or something like that. Miko told me that once.”
John squints at the moons outside, sees shapes but no forms. “Wonder what’s on these moons?” he says.
“Who knows,” Rodney shrugs, “maybe a fox making wine.”
“A beaver brewing coffee,” John adds, smiling when Rodney laughs.
“A cat making a ZPM.”
John throws a leg over Rodney’s hip, shuffles in close. He feels the cool sheet Rodney pulls up around them, tucks his face into Rodney’s side and breathes deep. Rodney shivers a bit at the puff of air against his neck, and pulls John closer. John drifts to sleep, covered in a thin sheet, the light of two moons, and the heavy, warm press of Rodney’s arm.