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There's an armchair in John's living room - their living room, Rodney thinks, stunned by the realization all over again – a big, green armchair, faded from years of exposure to the Nantucket sun, broken in and comfortable like worn jeans or callused fingertips, curled around his hip in the night. It's John's favorite chair, the place he likes to sprawl, one leg hooked over the arm and his head tipped back, reading the newspaper he's folded into manageable pieces. Rodney's spent hours studying John in that chair, the improbable twist of his body as he naps, talks on the phone, reads, stares off into space. There's nothing quite so restful, he's found, as coming home and finding John there, tucked into the familiar nooks and crannies of a chair that groans when someone sits in it, his bare feet bathed in afternoon sun. Sometimes – often, he concedes – John will look up and smile at him, and for the length of that moment there isn't a thought in his head but oh.
He sits in the chair on a Sunday afternoon while John's away, flying someone somewhere that isn't home. The house is sleepy, drowsily watchful, and Rodney stows the creamer back in the fridge, shuts the door and is hit by a wave of longing so powerful he almost gasps out loud. He catches his breath, blushes to find himself a grown man so utterly stupid over missing someone, and fumbles his coffee cup into his hand, shuffles to the living room, sits in the chair and tips back his head. He falls asleep there, mug cradled close to his chest as if it contains something infinitely more precious than cooling coffee.
John wakes him with a touch.
Rodney blinks. "Mmm, hi. Hi."
And John smiles. "Miss me?" he asks and eases Rodney's coffee cup out of his hand.
"No," Rodney says defensively. He sits up a little straighter. "Hardly at all. A little. Some."
"Some," John grins, leaning in and kissing him slowly, warm mouth and chapped lips, a day's full stubble rough against Rodney's jaw.
"Okay a lot," Rodney whispers, hiccupping inconveniently as they break apart. "I'm lame." John shakes his head, touches a thumb to Rodney's bottom lip, and Rodney swallows to see such fondness in John's easy smile.
"I'm pretty lame too," John says. The tips of his ears are slowly turning pink.
"Okay," Rodney nods.
"Want some dinner?"
"Okay," Rodney says again.
"Or – "
"Or," Rodney agrees. "Yes, or, or," and he pulls John down, a mess of too many limbs for easy comfort, too tall a body for sharing the chair, and wraps his arms around him, willing it to work. John laughs softly; shifts to try and bend his knees and straddle Rodney's thighs; eventually comes to rest with his face against Rodney's neck, breathing in slowly as though he's forgotten the scent of Rodney's shirts and considers it a vital, necessary thing. The chair groans beneath them.
"So, 'or' then," John says, voice muffled by proximity. He sounds pleased.
Rodney turns his head to nose into John's hair, and gives up all hope of ever being cool. "Stupid," he says, and whether he means himself, or John, or both, it doesn't seem important that he's clear.