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He’d stolen John’s shirt again.
Standing in the middle of the large open space that constituted both living room and rec space, head tilted back in a moment’s pleasure over a simple cup of coffee. The soft, light grey fabric clung to an unfamiliar form, stopping short of the standard black briefs they both still wore years after they’d left the Alliance. Bare foot, like they always were, because the textured yellow stone of their adopted world was rarely rough and never cold.
Sunlight streamed through the windows mounted high in the walls. Dancing across skin. Kissing cheekbones. Catching in the soft black curls of his hair. Covering the man before him in a warmth that could only be matched by the warm heart within.
John stood on the landing of their stairs, caught in the moment, and his chest ached that it couldn’t last.
But it didn’t need to, because Kaidan had heard him. Traipsing down the stairs, his own feet bare. Noticed the pause in sound, the lack of greeting, the quiet, casual touch that hadn’t come. No hand on his waist, no kiss against his neck, no puff of breath in place of a laugh.
Dropping his chin, Kaidan turned to him, eyes opening as pleasure slid toward idle concern. Curious, observant, kind eyes, that really did look like whiskey when they caught the sun. “Good morning.”
Forcing his feet to move, John walked down the remaining steps.
Kaidan watched him, quiet. Patient. Always willing to wait. Always there when John needed him to be.
Stopping in front of him, John lifted a hand to brush knuckles gently along Kaidan’s cheek. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
Even after years of hearing it, Kaidan still blushed. Faint red bloomed on his cheeks, his chin ducking on instinct as he looked up at John from under dark lashes. Shy, modest, oblivious - how could he not know? How could he not see?
He wanted to kiss him; to break the spell and spend the morning pressing whispered I love yous over every inch of skin. Making Kaidan feel as valued and treasured and wanted as he made John feel every time he said his name. To take the man he loved apart like he so rarely got the chance to do; slow and sweet and blanketed in the morning sun.
Because John had always loved sunlight. Jack had called him a flower once, for thriving on light alone. No coffee or stims or morning yoga routine to help wake that clever mind.
But he hadn’t known the purpose of a sun’s light until he’d turned around, in the middle of a field, on a planet he couldn’t name, waiting for a friend to fix their ride, and seen the light in Kaidan’s grinning face.
Bright, and happy, and always there. Just like the man before him.
That day. Every day.
Maybe John was a flower, but it was no sun that kept him alive, thriving in a world that so few accepted could support life.
Leaning into his touch, Kaidan gave him a small smile. Gave him, asking so little in return. “Are you going to tell me?”
His touch light - as if he could damage him - John traced a path from Kaidan’s temple to his jaw. Following the line of his hair to find the shape of his ear. Skimming over one cheekbone to brush down the line of the straight, almost pointed nose. Finishing, as he always did, by holding Kaidan’s chin, his thumb brushing over full lips that tried not to smile again and failed.
“There are paintings,” John said, voice soft as Kaidan’s first snow, “from centuries past. Priceless works of art, housed in vaults, in museums, in buildings so secure only the very best could ever steal them. Prized for their colors, their textures, their use of line and shape and shadow. For the way the master painters of one of Earth’s greatest art periods captured light and life and love in their works. Moments of humanity, preserved for all time, by some of the very best.”
He watched as Kaidan tilted his head just so; just enough that the light splashed over John’s shoulders and caught along his jaw, in his eyes, around his hair.
“What those artists would have done,” John breathed, “for the chance to paint you.”
Shy. Modest. Oblivious. “You think they’d really want to paint me?”
John gave into temptation, letting his fingers trail down Kaidan’s throat as he spoke. “Your face - absolutely. The rest of you deserves a sculptor’s hands.” A flicker of something dark, deep inside, but John pushed it away with a teasing look. “But I’m selfish;I don’t want anyone else to know the shape of you.”
Something equally dark, equally unwelcome, slithered behind those eyes. “Maybe once upon a time, John. But I’m no soldier now.”
His name, from those lips, would always be his undoing.
Taking the cup of still hot coffee, John set it aside. Left to cool on a counter and mourn the subtly different taste of reheated vile later. After.
Surrendering completely, John let his hands roam. Over shoulders that bore responsibility; over a breast that housed compassion; over arms that had held him, carried him, cradled him close. Stepping closer to mold sides and back and dip, teasing and tempting, lower, earning a warmed smile as his hands shaped the tops of things and a firm butt.
Maybe not as defined as when they’d been sprinting between cover, dodging bullets, swearing into the comms when something exploded and blocked an exit path. But that was years ago. Before they’d retired. Before they had a daughter. Before they’d been married. Before either had been brave enough to say the words Kaidan pressed into John’s skin every morning; a gentle reminder that neither of them were alone.
Kaidan’s chuckle, filling the space between them with that low sound John could never hear enough, brought him back to the task at hand. His hands continued their wandering, sliding over muscles not soft, but different. Shaped by their life on Tuchanka.
Chin lifted in renewed confidence, Kaidan’s voice teased at memory. “I see why you’d be jealous. That’s a lot of…detail…for a statue.”
“Sculpture,” John corrected. “Not some poured mold concocted from a holo. Art, shaped by hand, to preserve the best of you.”
“The best of me?” Covering John’s hands with his own, stilling them on his waist, Kaidan whispered, “and what’s the best of me?”
“Your strength,” John said. “Witnessed by muscles and bones and scars. Your determination, by the stability of the stance the artist would no doubt choose. Your beauty,” John’s gaze found it’s way back to Kaidan’s, “for they would have no choice but to show your face.”
Hands on Kaidan’s waist, John gave a short squeeze. Focus. This part matters. “They would preserve you, in countless details. Clothing and gesture and a smile that could be mischief or sympathy or biased love.”
Kaidan watched him, unconvinced. “Some poor artist is going to do all that? Chiseled in stone for a town plaza?”
“Carved,” John corrected. “You don’t chisel marble, my love.” And this would be no public piece, left to the mercy of the weather. Art was cared for, looked after, kept somewhere that meant it would endure, even as countless minds could appreciate the grandeur before them.
The blush was stronger this time, but he still ducked his head again, glancing at John in his doubt. “Marble sculptures don’t usually have clothes,” Kaidan said. “Something about celebrating the human form.”
“Having seen you without clothes,” John said, “it is a human form worth celebrating.”
His name would be his undoing, but that slow, self-assured smile would work just as well. “Is it, now?”
He remembered the first time Kaidan’s voice had dipped like that. Changing into something that demanded John’s attention and made it impossible to focus in the same breath. Low, and full of promise, and every bit as wonderful as a barked order or a carefree laugh.
One hand moving to John’s chest, Kaidan leaned in close, his lips close enough for John to feel the words against his own. “As priceless a painting, or as stunning a sculpture, I think I’d prefer your words in my ear and your hand in mine.”
This. This was the thing no painting could convey. No sculpture could shape. No sketch or holo or old photograph -
This. This feeling, spreading through his chest. This thing that Kaidan could do to him, that he wanted someone to understand what it felt like to love this man.
To know this man loved him.
He needed words. He needed music. He needed movement. Poems and songs and long ago dances. Things to whisper in Kaidan’s ear, melodies to hum as they walked to town, steps that needed a partner to be complete.
It all left him, abandoned him utterly, as Kaidan kissed him. Soft and sweet and filling him with sunlight.
Coffee forgotten, long, rambling speech forgotten, Kaidan kept his mouth against John’s, keeping their words between them. “Should I take you upstairs?” Heat, from the sun, from a fire, from knowing he was loved. “And tell you how beautiful you are?”
He could take him anywhere, tell him anything.
Kaidan took his hand, leading John back up the stairs. Back to their room, and time they had to spare, and I love yous pressed against every inch of skin.
Kaidan moved, and John followed him. Like a flower following the sun.