Archive of Our Own

John yearns and burns, runs hot and cold,
Prays fiercely not to make a sound
When Rodney feels too hot, too tight.

The bedroom's reading light now burns
and Rodney's sheets feel weirdly cold.
To talk to John would be a not
so great idea. He can't stand to sound
so foolish, stupid, like he feels
right now, his chest becoming tight.

Is this, right now, a heart attack? Tight
chest pains mean that, right? Lungs burn,
my god, oh god, is this how death feels?
Atlantis is doomed, the tingling cold
his last sensation. He sounds
delusional, John says. He's not:

this is how death is: not
knowing whether "stay" risks a tight
refusal or worse; knowing he sounds
weak and old and tired and burned.
Rodney can't see how to be less cold,
to show and tell with what he feels.

He guesses, sometimes, that John feels
something, or maybe, or not.
(But John has a collar, the leather cold,
which Rodney once buckled too tight.
John didn't complain. The shame still burns
of enjoying the hurt, ragged sounds.)

When you put it like that, he sounds
-- fine, yes -- crazy. But here it feels
right. He reaches forward, ready to burn
his bridges. He can't. He can't not.
The lines on their faces are tight:
he sees John ready himself to be cold.

His hands on John's throat are cold
but heat rushes through them, draws sounds,
oh god, my god, Rodney's hands get tight,
he can sense John's pulse -- it feels
amazing, seriously, the bond is not
like anything else. My god, oh god, it burns.

And with that moment, he burns
his way into John, no longer cold,
but open, honest, all that they're not.
John shows himself, too, through his sounds.
His moans are ripples that Rodney feels,
his breath no longer controlled and tight.

The collar could never be this tight;
that risks reveal by leather burn.
But Rodney wants it, wants to feel
all of John now, naked and cold.
He asks with words, those alien sounds,
harsh and brittle where breath was not.

That collar's not here, so he knots
a belt around John's neck. Tighter. Tight.
It's good. It's right. A shuddering sound
comes from one of them. They burn
together. John's hands are cold.
His cock juts out, Rodney can feel.

He stands back, away. Tries to feel,
tries to feel in control. Like he's not
falling, feeling, stranded, cold,
lost with a man whose vise-tight
grasp on his soul makes him burn
with fear hope lust and not a sound

but the beating of his heart. It sounds
like madness, letting himself feel
like this over a man who would burn
his life away on a dime. It's not.
He reaches forward, grips John tight,
with hands and mouth fights the cold.

John's cock has not noticed the cold.
As Rodney kneels, the sucking sounds
mingle with John's breaths, tight
gasps, shudders Rodney can feel
run through them both, willing or not.
"Yours," Rodney tries. The effort burns.

John yields and burns, no longer cold,
Prays only not to hide a sound
When Rodney feels so hot, so tight.