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In which boredom leads to words.
Okay, I lied. It seems like I had more things to say today.
Rodney runs out of words just after midnight. After ten minutes of watching the blinking cursor on the screen, brain frustratingly blank, he gives up and decides to continue tomorrow. The night has wrapped itself around the house like a warm, fuzzy blanket, shielding and protecting. Rodney stretches out his aching back, makes another mental note to maybe start thinking about that exercise program John has been nagging him about, a resolution that will surely have faded by morning as per usual.
The TV is on in the living room, some ancient re-run of Friends with the volume turned down low. On the couch is a big heap of living, breathing, sleeping things. John is lying with his head on the armrest, stubble dark on his chin. There's a stripe of skin showing between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his sweatpants, revealing the dark treasure trail that always makes Rodney's fingers itch to touch. Newton is curled up against John's armpit, slowly sliding sideways into the narrow space between John's side and the back of the couch. Lady is stretched out over John's legs, her head resting on John's thigh.
Rodney plops down in the armchair next to John's head, watching his creatures (his, all of them, even the shoe-chewing mutt, and he can't believe how lucky he is), wondering what Lady would say if he was to boot her off the couch and steal her space on top of John.
It would surely wake John and Rodney doesn't want that. Between John's frequent bouts of insomnia and his tendency to roll out of bed at the slightest noise, watching him sleep is precious. The lines in his face gets smooth and relaxed, like he's suddenly twenty years younger, pure and undestroyed.
Rodney has made a living off his writing for longer than he cares to remember, but he has never found any words to properly describe this, the blossoming warmth in his chest every time he lays eyes on John. There are still moments when he has trouble believing that this is actually real, that they have all this together. Their house, their cat and their mutt, their life, and it's frightening and exhilarating at once, even after all this time. At some point in the past, Rodney must have done something right to deserve this. He has no idea what, but the proof is here in plain sight, snoring away on the couch, breathing in three matching rhythms.
Rodney runs out of words just after midnight. After ten minutes of watching the blinking cursor on the screen, brain frustratingly blank, he gives up and decides to continue tomorrow. The night has wrapped itself around the house like a warm, fuzzy blanket, shielding and protecting. Rodney stretches out his aching back, makes another mental note to maybe start thinking about that exercise program John has been nagging him about, a resolution that will surely have faded by morning as per usual.
The TV is on in the living room, some ancient re-run of Friends with the volume turned down low. On the couch is a big heap of living, breathing, sleeping things. John is lying with his head on the armrest, stubble dark on his chin. There's a stripe of skin showing between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his sweatpants, revealing the dark treasure trail that always makes Rodney's fingers itch to touch. Newton is curled up against John's armpit, slowly sliding sideways into the narrow space between John's side and the back of the couch. Lady is stretched out over John's legs, her head resting on John's thigh.
Rodney plops down in the armchair next to John's head, watching his creatures (his, all of them, even the shoe-chewing mutt, and he can't believe how lucky he is), wondering what Lady would say if he was to boot her off the couch and steal her space on top of John.
It would surely wake John and Rodney doesn't want that. Between John's frequent bouts of insomnia and his tendency to roll out of bed at the slightest noise, watching him sleep is precious. The lines in his face gets smooth and relaxed, like he's suddenly twenty years younger, pure and undestroyed.
Rodney has made a living off his writing for longer than he cares to remember, but he has never found any words to properly describe this, the blossoming warmth in his chest every time he lays eyes on John. There are still moments when he has trouble believing that this is actually real, that they have all this together. Their house, their cat and their mutt, their life, and it's frightening and exhilarating at once, even after all this time. At some point in the past, Rodney must have done something right to deserve this. He has no idea what, but the proof is here in plain sight, snoring away on the couch, breathing in three matching rhythms.