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Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of
the ripe summer, bears lightly along
white down-balls of myriads of seeds,
wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop
where they may,
Not these—O none of these, more than the
flames of me, consuming, burning for
his love whom I love—O none, more
than I, hurrying in and out;
John knows that real life isn't like movies. He's known it for as long as he can remember, though the first time he felt it keenly enough to burn was when he realized he had a very specific choice to make between love and the sky. Love was an abstract concept to him then; twisted up so tight with the feeling of flying that John couldn't imagine choosing any other way—still can't, if he's honest.
So John taught himself about other kinds of love, love that's not seen in the movies, and let himself have the sky. He used to watch romcoms with Nancy—her guilty pleasure, she'd always say, and they laughed at how unrealistic it was right up until the night Nancy took the remote, hit pause, and told John they both deserved something like what they were watching on that screen.
John never took her words to heart, though, at least for himself—didn't believe in the happy ending or the dramatic kiss or the big "aha" moment, looking at the other person across a crowded room and thinking there, there they are, the one for me.
And that's exactly why what's happening to him right now is so ridiculous.
They're on M9X-473, a peaceful, agrarian society with whom Atlantis has kept up trade relations since the first weeks of the expedition. AR-1 don't visit often, but their presence had been requested for the summer equinox festival, and Elizabeth was trying to up Atlantis's diplomatic profile. Plus, John thinks to himself, the food here is always really good.
So, that's the where and the when. They'd come through the gate with half an hour to spare before they're due at the festival grounds, and it's a beautiful day, the kind of perfectly idyllic Pegasus galaxy midsummer that makes John glad he calls this place home. The path from the gate meanders through grassy fields, the sun shining down and a gentle breeze wafting through the downy white flowers on tall green stalks. Beside John, Rodney's talking, has been since about two minutes after they stepped through the gate. John's been letting it wash over him, the familiar cadence of Rodney's complaints (subcategory: environmental, non-life-threatening), but he tunes back in, picking up the thread quickly.
"—it's a good thing I just made up a new batch of my sunblock, because I'm absolutely going to need another coat of it, you know I still haven't gotten the sweat-proofing fully worked out, and it's hot here, hotter than early summer really has a right to be, in my opinion, and—" Rodney pauses, inhales deeply, and then sneezes four times in a row. "Great, just wonderful, I'm allergic to these stupid flowers, I'd better have my—"
John reaches over, pulls the epipen from the side pocket of Rodney's tac vest, grinning. "Right here, McKay," he says, holding it up with a waggle of his fingers. "Orange to the thigh, blue to the sky, right?" Rodney's mouth curves, quick and crooked, as he snatches it back, fingers brushing over John's hand, and he wants to say that's it; that it's the contact, the smile, the big blue eyes that do him in, but John's heart has felt warm and full since Rodney started talking, and he blinks, tries not to stumble as he thinks, there, there he is, the one for me.
Rodney gives him a quick, raised eyebrowed glance, but then he's back on a roll, loudly theorizing which of the nearby plants might be trying to kill him, and John feels the sun warming him through, the wind blowing in his hair, and considers, not for the first time in the Pegasus galaxy, that he might need to rethink some of what he knows to be true about real life.