Dude, it's like it's in a whole other LANGUAGE.
So, I was reading fandom_secrets and you know what? None of the manga stuff makes a lick of sense to me. Same/uke? Yaoi? And the drawing style is often so similar I have no idea if I'm seeing stuff all on one comic/series or what
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The thing is, Rodney tells himself, he isn't stupid and he isn't sentimental. He doesn't become attached to projects; if he doesn't like letting them go, it's because some of them have to go and stand in hideous chrome office buildings or a nouveau-riche's overdone penthouse and marble deserves better than that.
John deserves better. Rodney rolls his eyes at his reflection in the mirror; he looks like a crazy man with toothpaste foam around his mouth. It's fitting because he feels crazy, strung out and at loose ends, rubbing at his chest and thinking of antacids because heartburn is the only way he can think to explain the hot-edged emptiness underneath his ribs.
On autopilot he pads in the direction the kitchen, because self-pity requires caffeine and sighs when he hears rustling coming from beyond the doorway. Stupid impatient cat, like he's going to starve if he has to wait two extra minutes.
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When he opens the door to the kitchen, he can't quite process what he's seeing. There's some guy in his apartment, a canvas drape barely around his hips, head bent over the escpresso machine on the other side of the room.
He's starting to work up to a good, "Who the hell are you -" when he realizes, he knows that back, those shoulders, and the sole of the foot that's scratching the back of a calf he's touched thousands of times. He knows that crazy, nightmare shock of hair.
Crazy being the operative word, because there's no way that he can be seeing what he thinks he sees. Who he thinks he sees.
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Rodney thinks about saying the espresso beans are in the freezer. He thinks about calling Teyla to tell her she was right about working too much. He thinks about the life-warm curve of back, the hips Rodney's fingers have memorized, how the solidness under them is bone.
"I..." he starts to say, takes a half-step closer, pauses when the... the statue looks up and around, and yeah, that was how Rodney had imagined marble would speak, the streamlined shift of tendon, calligraphy of muscle under skin.
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Rodney fixates on the motion and the lip underneath, pink and curved and plump and catching the light in a disturbingly familiar way.
He's run his thumb over a white, curving mouth just like that, but now it's flush with life and flattening into a distressingly thin, nervous line.
Swaying slightly, Rodney gropes for the counter to support him, a small, pained noise escaping his throat. He rubs his eyes roughly, takes a deep breath and decides to give reality another try.
The man who looks just like his statue looks at him sheepishly, pink tongue darting out to moisten pinker lip and a flash of white teeth biting down on the lush...
...cold marble unyielding beneath Rodney's mouth. He choked a sigh as he climbed off the scaffolding. Such life and beauty and barely contained potential, all for a stupid clothing store...never appreciate John...customers ogling him. Criminal. Insane ( ... )
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He also has John, his former statue John, curled sitting next to him on the couch, wearing a pair of Rodney's boxers and plowing through a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and staring raptly at Rodney's TV. Cartoon characters are shrieking and chasing each other with explosives in high-definition and that... Rodney wonders when it happened that the screams and synthesized soundtrack could not possibly make his life any more surreal than it already is.
Probably, he thinks, when he'd woken up and John had been right there, bending over him in elegant folds of limbs and Rodney's canvas, asking of Rodney wanted coffee and if he wanted to get off the floor any time soon. Rodney had accepted the help and the coffee, which had been terrible, but what had gotten him, snagged him somewhere in his throat so he couldn't breathe, had been realizing John's eyes were green ( ... )
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MOAR.
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Eyes up, McKay. Eyelashes. Rodney didn't remember carving eyelashes, because my god, so fiddly, not that Rodney would ever back away from that, but, just, no. You didn't. Unless you were the Thomas Kinkaid of sculpture or Jeff Koons (that blight) or something; it was an affectation ( ... )
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And that...
"Mmmmph mmmph!" Rodney says, which is oh my God whimpered into John's mouth. It kills him to pull away but he has to, has to because, "oh my God, you're... I made you! I could... you could be subconsciously compelled to accede to my every whim and I'm not--I'm desperate and it's very possible I've completely lost my mind but I don't, I don't want you to call me 'master' or kiss me because the fact I'm your creator ( ... )
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He's going to need days to map out all of John; witness every miraculous inch.
A part of his brain is still wringing its hands at this impossibility, this miracle, and muttering about dire consequenses but the majority of of Rodney's brain is firmly turned off, turned on and given over to little explosions of joy ( ... )
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