Current location:	sunroom
Current mood:	crazy
Current music:	CSI
Entry tags:	fic, john, rodney, ronon, sga, teyla

The Corps, part 1, SGA AU
Author: kisahawklin
Title: The Corps, part 1
Prompt: Place in the sun
Pairing(s): McKay/Sheppard, Teyla/Ronon, others implied
Rating: 17+
Summary: After four years of the Wraith winning the Drum Corps International World Championships, Atlantis is finally poised to take over the title.
Author's notes: Written in a week for 2008 mcshep_match. Thanks more than I can ever mention to soleta for cheerleading, beta, and caffeine-buying. Wouldn't have made it without her.

John shades his eyes from the blindingly bright reflection of the sun on the snow and watches Lorne put the prospectives through their paces. Their lines are crooked at best, nonexistent at worst. The new color guard captain (Teyla, he reminds himself, determined to remember her name so he can yell at her later) can’t get her kids to stand in a straight line, much less move in one. The Atlantis flags are twisted around so you can’t read them and the color guard seems to think they’re above Lorne’s marching drill, half-heartedly doing what he asks and breaking ranks the second he blows his whistle to stand around and gossip.

Lorne whistles for a water break, and John cracks a smile as he watches Evan steer Teyla away, no doubt to give her tips on how to keep the color guard in line. Rodney notices his smirk, and, as usual, can’t help but comment.

"You like them?" Rodney asks, tilting his head as he always does when he mocks John. "It’s the most pathetic bunch of imbeciles we’ve ever had on the field." Rodney pauses, and John knows what’s coming next. "Except for when you were still playing trumpet, of course."

"Of course," John echoes.

Rodney pulls his jacket more tightly around himself and John knocks his shoulder into Rodney’s. "I thought you were from Canada. This can’t be that bad."

Rodney snorts, and pulls his hood forward to shield his face. John doesn’t give him any more crap. It really is that bad – cold in that way only clear winter days in Wisconsin can be. Cold enough to make your lungs feel like they’ll freeze you from the inside out when you inhale.

Rodney sits forward as the kids came back from their water break with their instruments, his body language indicating he’s preparing for another disappointing show. He flips the page on his legal pad, pencil ready to take notes on the individual sections. John knows Rodney will complain endlessly about the utter incompetence of everyone in the corps, but in the end, he’ll design a show that plays to everyone’s strengths.

The trumpets look good as an overall group, the mellophones a little sloppier, but at least they have good sound quality while they’re moving. The percussion is haphazard, the tenor drums in particular disorganized and imprecise in their cadence, not to mention completely incapable of keeping a straight line.

Rodney’s busy ranting and taking notes, and John lets the comforting flow of derision wash over him. He’s not looking for the same thing as Rodney – he’s looking for section leaders. Aiden looks good on trumpet, Carson on mellophone, a couple of people in the running for contra-basses, Stackhouse maybe – but still no one for the on-field drummers. He refuses to consider Kavanagh for section leader; he’d rather run Radek into the ground (and he guiltily thinks they might be doing just that) than recommend Kavanagh to take over the drumline.

He sighs, willing himself to let go of the frustration of the percussion section, and shades his eyes again as the baritones line up. Chuck’s grown up a lot over the last year. John’s proud of him, and makes a mental note to talk to Elizabeth about the possibility of making him section leader.

"… and obviously you’re not listening to me. Why do I bother?" Rodney’s voice holds a teasing quality that John knows means he’s not pressing for John’s attention – this time – and John turns his patented half-smile on Rodney.

"Your genius renders me speechless," John says, and enjoys the nanosecond of surprise that shows on Rodney’s face before his defenses clamp down and he responds with his typical mix of sarcasm and self-congratulation.

"Of course it does," Rodney says, and gives John a grim smile of satisfaction. "I get that a lot." He goes back to writing notes and misses John’s spectacular eye-roll. With the practice Rodney gives him, he could be an Olympic champion eye-roller.

Elizabeth comes down from her perch high up the grandstand and joins John and Rodney, breaking up their easy rapport. "What do you think?" she asks, and looks to John first. John shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets to make it look even more careless.

"Aiden and Carson for sure," he glances at Elizabeth, noting her quick nod of assent. "And I was thinking Chuck," he adds, watching Elizabeth’s eyes narrow as she debates saying something he isn’t going to like.

"Chuck’s only seventeen. It’s his second year," she starts, and John’s ready to jump in when Rodney surprises the hell out of him and does it first.

"Since when does age matter? There are plenty of idiots down there ready to age out next year, that doesn’t mean we should give them section leader. Why not get one young and train him?"

John snaps his mouth shut and nods. His argument had been ‘but he’s good.’

"We have to see everyone," she says. "You never know who might show up next weekend."

"Oh come on," Rodney says, bristling. "Everyone knows that anyone who really wants to be here makes the first weekend. Coming later just shows they don’t have the dedication to get here on time."

"Some people have family obligations," Elizabeth says, attempting to derail Rodney before he gets going.

"It’s after the new year, for crying out loud," Rodney answers. "They should be here."

"We have more than one camp for a reason."

"Not a good one," Rodney mutters, plenty loud enough for both John and Elizabeth to hear. He knows when to stop, though – and it’s when John kicks him.

"Fine," John says, picking up the thread of pre-rant conversation. "I’ll reserve judgment until we’ve seen everyone."

"Thank you," Elizabeth says gratefully, and John knows it’s more for running interference with Rodney than his agreement to wait on section leaders.

"Why don’t you call lunch," Elizabeth says, and John answers with a nod. "And go get Evan and Teyla. We can discuss things over chicken salad."

John groans inwardly. Chicken salad? Ew. "Sure thing, Elizabeth," he answers, and smiles brighter than he’s feeling at the moment.

"You too, Rodney," Elizabeth calls over her shoulder as she climbs the bleachers.

"Damn," Rodney says. "I was hoping she was going to forget about me."

"As if that’s even possible."

---

"Aiden and Carson, definitely," Lorne says. "I don’t know about Chuck, though."

"I told John he has to wait until we’ve seen everyone," Elizabeth says smoothly, raising an eyebrow at John.

"Of course." John nods to acknowledge Elizabeth’s point. "But if we don’t suddenly get an experienced euphonium player with a couple years on Chuck and an amazing sound, I think Rodney’s right. We can train Chuck – and he’s come a long way over the hiatus."

"It’s true," Lorne agrees. "He’s been practicing."

"What are we going to do about the drumline?" Rodney interrupts. "Their cadences make my brain hurt. It’s like auditory entropy."

"Clearly Kavanagh’s not qualified to –" John starts, but Elizabeth cuts him off.

"He’s the senior member, he’s the most talented –"

"Like that’s tough," Rodney mumbles around a mouthful of sandwich.

"He’s the best we’ve got," Elizabeth finishes, narrowing her eyes at Rodney.

"Zelenka can handle the pit and the drumline," John says. "He’s been doing it for two years now, he’s got it down to a science."

"No, he doesn’t," Elizabeth says, her voice the definition of contrary. "He goes the whole season on four hours of sleep and No-Doz. If Kavanagh’s the best we’ve got, then he can be the figurehead and we can whip the drummers into shape ourselves."

"I don’t know about you," John says, sprawling back on his chair, "but I don’t play drums. I don’t know a thing about sticking or cadences or..." He waves a hand to indicate other vague percussion difficulties.

He knows damn well that Elizabeth plays flute and sings, and got into corps through the color guard. Her music education degree made sure she spent a semester on percussion, but John’s pretty sure it wasn’t an in depth class and it was over a decade ago. He’s willing to bet she can’t tell the difference between a timpani mallet and a bass drum beater anymore.

Elizabeth scowls but doesn’t answer. Of course, John only knows it’s a scowl from years of working with Elizabeth. No one else seems to notice, and damn if the new color guard woman doesn’t speak up. What’s her name again? Oh yeah, Teyla.

"I am familiar with rhythm and cadence. Everyone on the Athosian team was required to play an instrument," she says. "I am proficient at snare and tenor drums."

"Thank you, Teyla," Elizabeth says, tilting her head slightly sideways and smiling warmly. "Your help would be greatly appreciated."

"How about Stackhouse for the basses?" John asks, hoping to delay the percussion question until he and Rodney can talk to Radek. He wonders if Teyla's any good, and if she is, whether or not he can steal her from the color guard to run the drumline.

"I was thinking Markham," Elizabeth answers, and John just shakes his head.

---

Teyla earns John’s grudging respect as the color guard can keep up with the rest of the corps by Saturday. Rumor has it she kept them up until three am. He insinuates himself into her lunch plans with Elizabeth, and it turns out that she’s from the Athosian team – the Open class team ran that itself into the ground financially. There are Athosians littered across several other corps, like refugees.

John gets a whiff of pride from Elizabeth, and he’d bet his left nut that she recruited Teyla specifically. He’ll have to introduce Teyla to Rodney; he needs to know what she can do before he starts working on the grids.

They plan a meeting at John and Rodney’s place that night, and Teyla shows up promptly at eight. Within five minutes of her arriving, Rodney’s got his paper out, making sketches and asking about the quality of the rest of her guard. John leaves them to it – he may respect Teyla, but color guard has never been his thing – and finishes up his lingering homework from last week, listening in from the kitchen table.

He catches that Teyla was recruited by the Genii as well, and that she was ready to accept their offer before Elizabeth intercepted her. Teyla hadn’t known about the drugs; it’s a tightly kept secret, so John's not surprised. He is impressed that Elizabeth knew. Personally, he wants to kick the Wraith’s ass as much as the next guy, but he’s not willing to sacrifice his people’s health to do it.

Turns out that Teyla is a lot smarter than he gave her credit for; she finished a business degree in three years while running a full dance studio. She’s aging out this year too; that makes four key players. If they don’t find an amazing percussion section leader to replace Radek, Atlantis is going to lose their entire drumline to other corps. Carson’s not too bad of a loss; they have Cadman coming up the ranks, and more on the way. John’s training Evan to replace him as drum major, so that’s another three years there. John takes a deep breath and stops thinking about it, going back to his homework and eventually falling asleep with his face in the textbook.

Teyla works on choreography with Rodney a couple of times a week; sometimes Rodney goes to her studio to watch her dance and sometimes they sit together in John and Rodney’s meager living room, heads bent over the low coffee table discussing things like partnering skills and bird’s eye views. John likes those nights the best. He likes to watch Teyla dance, sure, but he likes distracting her and Rodney with Doctor Who better, especially when it ends up with the three of them cozied up on the couch, eating out of each other’s cartons of Chinese food.

---

There’s a music meeting Sunday night, and John begs to be included, even if he doesn’t get a say. Elizabeth tries to negotiate him a seat at the table, but Sumner says absolutely not and John is stuck eavesdropping at the door and waiting for Rodney. Lucky for him, his roommate is something of a genius who owns more laptops than god. He sets John up with a laptop running a chat window and a feed from Rodney’s webcam, which, at the moment, means John is looking at the bland painting on the back wall of the conference room.

Sumner and Everett walk blithely past the laptop and John grins at their complete obliviousness. Rodney sits down in front of the webcam and waggles his eyebrows, which has John’s ribs about to break with suppressed laughter. He’s got absolutely no idea how he lucked into rooming with Rodney his freshman year, but jesus, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

The rest of the board files in, what John privately thinks of as the ‘old guard,’ Woolsey and Landry, and the ‘cool kids,’ Carter, O’Neill, and Jackson. There are plenty of others on the board, and John likes most of them well enough, but he doesn’t know where their loyalties lie.

The discussion starts with the same argument he, Radek, Carson, and Rodney have had on the tour buses for hours on end: classical music or popular? John rolls his eyes waiting for them to hash it out. He knows there’s no way they’re going to vote in a show with no classical music, so he wishes they would stop dragging the argument out every year. Rodney stares into the webcam, which is funny right up until it becomes freaky, and John wonders if he fell asleep with his eyes open. The argument skips over to the theme of the show, which John has some interest in. Rodney too, apparently, since he’s now voicing some opinions on the matter.

When ‘Americana’ is voted in over both a Mahler-themed show and some crazy space opera idea of Vala’s, John breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not the most original idea for a show, but he can work with it. Rodney brings up Fanfare for the Common Man, and John could kiss him. It’s a drum major’s dream piece.

O’Neill proposes Barber’s Adagio for Strings, and that’s a keeper too, though John can’t imagine what they’re going to do with the percussion. He trusts Rodney to come up with something.

Woolsey suggests West Side Story, and Carter suggests Gershwin, though she waffles between Rhapsody in Blue (and John can just picture Aiden wailing on the opening solo) and an American in Paris. Rodney makes an off the cuff comment about arranging a Gershwin medley, but he thinks that Bernstein would be too much.

Jackson recommends a popular artist, and the room explodes into half a dozen loud arguments. John types frantically into his chat window, trying to clarify who they’re arguing about. Rodney fires off the names of the artists they’re considering – Brittney, Michael Jackson, Madonna, Alanis… he stops typing long enough to sneer at Bates and remind him that Alanis is Canadian, you idiot. John types a name into the chat window and holds his breath until he hears Rodney’s questioning voice. "Johnny Cash?"

"Oh, that’s a brilliant idea!" Keller squeals, and within a few moments they’ve decided on Ring of Fire and Rodney looks ready to commit suicide.

---

Ronon shows up an hour late on the Friday of second camp.

John can’t believe his eyes as the mountain with dreadlocks strolls casually onto the field and talks to Evan. At first, he’s sure the guy’s lost and asking for directions, but then Lorne shrugs and points to one of the uneven groups. The straggler gets in line and immediately his entire formation snaps to. It helps that he’s head and shoulders taller than almost everyone in the corps.

John jogs over to the line, which makes the kids stand up straighter and check their diagonals. The drills continue and he marches backwards in front of the new guy and sticks his hand out. "John Sheppard, drum major."

"Ronon Dex." He keeps his eyes forward but has no problem grabbing John’s hand for a brutal handshake.

"What do you play?"

"Percussion and drums," Ronon answers, and John can’t help a broad grin. The distinction is a fine one.

"Line or pit?" John asks, and Ronon tilts his head like he doesn’t understand the question before straightening up and looking directly forward again.

"Whatever."

John nods and jogs back out of the line, stopping to yell in Lorne’s ear about the mellophones looking sloppy before corralling a volunteer into running up to the field house to let Radek know he’s got a prelim audition at lunch.

When he, Rodney, and Ronon arrive, Zelenka is pissing off his pit by not letting them go to lunch until they’ve each played the cadence he wrote perfectly. John introduces Ronon around, and the crew is nervous; they don’t like the drumline guys to be near their extremely expensive equipment, and everything about Ronon screams drumline.

When Ronon sets down his duffel and pulls out a stick bag at least as big as Radek’s, the atmosphere changes. Even with the change in regs that allow the World Class corps an additional fifteen people, they’ve got at least five more percussionists than they can keep. Radek raises an eyebrow. "What is your specialty?" he asks, and John knows it’s a trick question, if only from the way Rodney smirks behind Ronon’s back.

"Timpani, keys, snare, toms." Ronon shrugs. "Whatever." John can’t tell if he’s wary of choosing something that might get him cut or if he really couldn’t care less.

Radek huffs in disbelief. "Do you want to march or do you want to play in the pit?"

"Whatever," Ronon says, and his bored expression says that he means it.

"Fine," Radek snaps. John bites back a smile at his frustration. Radek shoos Simpson away from the marimba and opens one of the pieces sitting on the stand. Ronon gives the music a once over, opens his stick bag and pulls out four yarn mallets, and starts at the top, leaning into the instrument and looking like he’s pulling the sound out of it with his mallets. John’s ready to piss his pants – this guy could be the answer to their prayers. Rodney straightens up almost comically, his mouth opening in disbelief. Radek hides his surprise better, but not his irritation. "Yes, yes. Timpani, then."

Radek puts Ronon through his paces, including cadences. When he plays some funky polyrhythmic cadence on the toms, Radek nods slowly. "Enough," he says, lifting a hand. "Sheppard, if you will take him to lunch?" Radek dismisses them both without another thought and stands with Rodney, their heads close and hands moving.

Over lunch, John learns (with a fair amount of pulling teeth) that Ronon had tried to play with the Wraith but was chased out of their camp when he wouldn’t agree to their bullying tactics.

He also learns that Ronon hitched here from the East Coast and has nowhere to stay. He offers the couch in his apartment without thinking. It isn’t until they’re walking up to Rodney’s car that night that he thinks it might have been prudent to ask Rodney if he minded taking in a seven foot tall stray.

Rodney’s eyes travel up and up Ronon’s frame and cut over to John, and John plasters on his most apologetic, self-deprecating smile. Rodney shakes his head and unlocks the doors, complaining about having to clean out the back seat of his car.

"It’s bad enough that I have to leave the front seat clean for you, Sheppard, now I’ll have to clean the whole back seat so he can fit in there!"

"Not necessary," Ronon says, and climbs in, sprawling comfortably amidst the fast food wrappers and music journals.

"Hey!" Rodney yells, pulling a Journal of Music and Meaning out from under Ronon’s ass. "Watch it! Some of that stuff is important!"

Ronon shrugs and shoves the journals to one side. John punches Rodney playfully on the arm and plays tour guide on the way home, talking about Madison and the University in between pointing out their favorite restaurants.

They get a few more bits of information out of Ronon ("I don’t go to school," and "I hate the Wraith,") but not much more, and within five minutes of appropriating their vastly inadequate couch, he’s fast asleep, one leg bent under him and the other dangling off the side.

---

Once Ronon basically moves in with them, Teyla starts coming over every night instead of two or three times a week. By the third time Rodney comes home from rehearsal with the three of them beating out Ronon's trademark polyrhythmic cadences on the coffee table, he says, "Let’s just get a house and be done with it."

Ronon shrugs, the physical embodiment of ‘whatever,’ and Teyla thinks about it for a minute before answering, "Okay." Apparently John doesn’t even get a vote, because two weeks later, they’re moving into a four bedroom house.

The third camp is audition time, so John spends a lot of the first two days sitting in on brass auditions and conferring with Radek on percussion auditions before taking the whole group out to march. He gives his list of possible section leaders to Elizabeth, and hopes he’s convinced her to give Chuck a try.

John sees less of Rodney during those three days than he does the rest of the year, as Rodney spends the time justifying his show to the board. John drags his ass to the car after camp every day, but he doesn’t feel half as tired as Rodney looks.

They order pizza and fall asleep en masse on the couch Saturday night, and John wakes up with a crick in his neck around midnight. He takes a moment to enjoy the warm feeling of being comfortably pressed between people he cares about before pushing Teyla’s legs off and putting a hand on Rodney’s face and shoving. Ronon picks Teyla up and carries her to her room – or his maybe, but John carefully avoids thinking about it. He’s not carrying Rodney anywhere, but he would feel guilty if he left him draped awkwardly over the arm of the couch.

"C’mon, Rodney, wake up," John coaxes, pressing on his shoulder. Rodney mumbles and captures John’s hand, pulling him down with enough strength that John has to do a little two-step to avoid tumbling on top of him. He forgets how strong Rodney is for a wiry guy.

"Let’s get you to bed," John says, and Rodney mumbles some more and sighs. John shakes him roughly and finally Rodney wakes up enough to move, or at least be dragged to his bedroom. John stands in the doorway long enough to watch Rodney fall face-first onto the bed before going to his own room and climbing in, shivering while he waits for his electric blanket to kick in.

The next morning they’re all up early, if a little bleary-eyed. Ronon’s the only one whose possible position is in jeopardy, but they’re all rooting for him to get section leader of the drumline, so the house is quiet and tense.

They get in to camp almost two hours early, and they’re not the only ones. The lists must have been posted late last night because they’ve already got several dozen initials on them. John scans the section leaders while he waits for Ronon to realize he got it, and pumps a fist when he sees Chuck’s name at the top of the euphoniums, and his initials next to his title of section leader. All the other section leaders were pretty much shoo-ins, though John’s glad to see the bass team of Markham and Stackhouse. The basses are their slowest and rowdiest group – it’ll take two of them to keep them in line.

Ronon finally makes his way to the boards and when he realizes he’s section leader, he breaks into a huge grin. He picks Teyla up and twirls her around, setting her down on her feet with a soft kiss. When John glances at Rodney to see if he knew about this, he notices Rodney’s turned-down mouth and a blush creeping up his cheeks. John hadn’t noticed that Rodney has a crush on Teyla - he would have teased him way before now if he had.

John makes a note to give Rodney a hard time about it later and then sets off to talk to people and congratulate section leaders. They’re getting their practice sheets and music today – the long nights he and Ronon spent as copyists for Rodney are finally over, and John’s role as taskmaster and inspirational speaker is about to begin.

John mills around and gets to know some of the newest members, Parrish on bass drum and Gall on cymbals, Kenmore on euphonium. Coleman looks like he’ll make a decent trumpet section leader once his balls drop.

The morning is spent reading the music, Rodney and Ronon running around correcting wrong notes and rhythms while John conducts, trying to get through the sightreading without stopping too often. People are sparking with energy, glad to be here and not part of the eighty kids that were sent packing this morning. John marshals the spirit into the music as best he can, but the Adagio for Strings is too subtle for them right now. It’s limp at best, and John knows he’s going to have to give a pep talk about it before they try it for real.

The afternoon sees them drilling the kids into the ground. There’s a hundred and seventy of them with the alternates, and the first couple rounds through some of Rodney’s easiest grids are a nightmare. John’s glad they didn’t march with instruments because the repair bills would have been astronomical. It doesn’t take long to shape up; the little quickstep section cleans up reasonably well with only an hour’s practice. Another hour gets a tricky little jump section looking good too. When John finally calls an end to the day with a rousing speech and a final congratulations, it’s with a warm glow of satisfaction about the upcoming season.

---

The next four months are the longest of his life. The wait between the last three-day camp and spring training always feels like forever, but this year it’s compounded by an incredibly long winter and a feverish excitement on Rodney’s part to tweak the shows until they’re unbeatable.

John’s got another year left to his degree, but Rodney mentions something about graduation; he is a genius (a self-proclaimed one, but John has to admit he never sees Rodney study, and he’s constantly complaining about the imbeciles in his classes), so graduating a year early shouldn’t surprise John, not really. It does though, because that word, graduation makes his stomach churn. He assumes Rodney’s going on to get some kind of advanced degree, so some small part of him hopes Rodney’s planning on staying in Madison for his master’s. He knows their theory and composition faculty isn’t all that, though, and Rodney should be somewhere else – Julliard, maybe, or the New England Conservatory.

When John finds out, courtesy of Teyla, that Rodney’s graduating with his PhD, his hopes wilt. He suddenly feels left out of a big chunk of Rodney’s life; he knows Rodney spends long days in the music building and doesn’t sleep much, but he spends almost all his time with John talking about Atlantis, which makes John feel incredibly selfish and vaguely hurt.

Thankfully Teyla makes up for him, and when she finds out about Rodney’s twenty-first birthday, they throw him a party that couldn’t be more of a surprise (considering his birthday was two and a half months ago). John gets drunk enough to admit that he feels shitty knowing so little about Rodney, and Rodney blushes and tells John he’s the best friend Rodney’s ever had.

They lope along uneasily for a little while after that. There’s an unspoken tension between them, but they mostly ignore it in favor of watching Firefly and Buffy reruns, ordering in, and talking about marching.

John takes lessons and plays in the band to keep his chops up, and he memorizes every part of the score, even the percussion. Ronon helps with that. Miko is a percussion major at the UW, and she lets Ronon practice whenever she can sneak him into the building and get him some equipment. John goes along and practices those nights, the clear sound of his trumpet blocking out the sound of the numbers that stick with him from his math classes. Rodney and Teyla still spend at least one night a week working out choreography, and John calls Radek and Carson and Aiden at least every week or two to see how life is going at their respective conservatories.

Spring training finally arrives, and their little house is filled to the brim with corps members who don’t live around Madison. Radek and Carson and Evan all crash at their place, and Rodney only complains if there’s no hot water or they’re out of coffee – it’s downright personable of him. Cadman stays too, much to Carson’s delight. They pick up one more stray after the first of the alldays, fourteen grueling hours of marching and playing in the warm pre-summer sunshine. His name is Michael Kenmore, and John remembers talking to him briefly the last day of camp. He’s not that interesting, really, but he looks so lost when John asks for a hands-up of people who need housing that John picks him out of the twenty or so kids that all look a little desperate around the eyes.

Once John makes sure no one is sleeping on the street, Rodney and Teyla drive them all home and Ronon makes a respectable spaghetti dinner. They wrangle sleeping space briefly – Teyla’s already moved into Ronon’s room, so Carson and Cadman take her room with a promise to buy her new sheets. Evan bunks with John and Radek with Rodney, and that leaves Michael on the couch. He doesn’t seem to mind, so John makes sure he’s got pillows and a blanket and knows where all the bathrooms and exits are before he goes to bed. Evan’s already snoring when he gets there.

The next month is a haze of marching and yelling and conducting and cajoling, demanding precision in their marching and warmth in their sound, perfection in all the smallest details. John carefully impresses his section leaders with Atlantis’s goals for the season, and that saves him time in the long run as they take that extra step to make everything look razor sharp and utterly in unison.

He’s feeling confident about this year’s show, but one of the best parts about the summer is that as the performance season progresses, Rodney will be adding one tweak after another to make them better and better. He’s got a list of ideas on his favorite laptop, but John knows he keeps most of his good stuff to himself, chewing on it internally before running it by John or Ronon or Teyla.

They get half a day off before they leave for their summer-long tour, and John packs a bag full of food and a gallon of sunscreen, crams his more permanent roommates into Rodney’s car, and takes off for Lake Michigan.

---

It’s been a while since he drove to Milwaukee, but he still knows the exact moment you start going down the hill to Bradford Beach and the lake effect kicks in. He rolls down the windows and waits for the startling temperature drop.

They park in the little lot and scope out the beach to find the optimal place to lay out their blankets and towels on the sand. The afternoon passes by in a lazy sprawl of reading and volleyball and a good game of chicken that John and Rodney win with a little help from Teyla’s ticklish knees.

John and Rodney head for the blankets after, John determined to sleep in the sun and Rodney determined to get the hell out of the water. Rodney insists on reapplying John’s sunscreen, and John doesn’t argue. He lays on his stomach and falls asleep to the soothing strokes of Rodney’s hands applying sunscreen to his back.

When he wakes some time later and cracks an eye open, Rodney’s snoozing too. He’s warm next to John, close enough that they’re nearly touching. Rodney opens his eyes and looks at John briefly. A lazy, affectionate smile touches his lips before his eyes slide closed again and his breathing deepens.

John pushes up onto his elbows and scans the beach for Ronon and Teyla. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, but he’d be surprised if they were still in the water. He finds them to the north, working on some piece of choreography John’s never seen before. It’s gorgeous, and Ronon’s easy strength translates into incredibly high lifts for Teyla. He wonders if it’s something she’s choreographing for a student, or one of her classes. It occurs to him that she’s giving up three months worth of work to go on tour with Atlantis; he’s never put together how much of a sacrifice it must be for her.

"They’re beautiful, aren’t they?" Rodney sighs sleepily.

"Yeah," John answers, swallowing his jealousy. "I didn’t know you had a crush on Teyla," he says, remembering that he planned to tease Rodney about it.

Rodney doesn’t answer and John twists around to look at him. He looks caught between frustration and amusement.

"What makes you think that?" Rodney asks, as amusement wins out.

"The way you blushed when they kissed," John explains. "The day Ronon found out he was section leader."

Rodney stares at him for a moment, his eyes serious. "I’m gay, John." Rodney’s searching John’s face as he says the words, and John knows he’s waiting for a reaction – probably a bad one, if the way his body tenses up means anything. John’s surprised, but he doesn’t really care; he’s ambivalent about who anyone sleeps with, even himself.

"So it was Ronon, then," John says with a sly half-smile, and Rodney swats him on the back of the head.

---

Atlantis’s first competition is somewhere in Illinois, close enough that they can climb on the bus in the middle of the afternoon and arrive in time for a seven o’clock show.

Rodney rides with the corps, even though he could be in one of the three much nicer coaches’ buses. John thinks it’s for Rodney’s benefit more than his own (he’d hate to be stuck on a bus with Sumner for hours on end), but it helps keep the over-eager bus sluts away, so he doesn’t tease Rodney about it. There’s a girl he remembers from last year and two new ones; they look over the empty seat next to him and he shakes his head firmly. "Thank you, ladies, waiting for the genius." They giggle and walk away gossiping; it isn’t long before the lone boy bus-slut sidles up to him and eyes the seat. John’s exactly as friendly as he was with the girls and uses the exact same rejection. "Waiting for the genius."

The kids have taken to calling McKay ‘the genius’ since his last three shows boosted Atlantis in the ranks from seventh to fourth to second, and Rodney certainly didn’t do anything to discourage the nickname. This show is better than the last three combined; Rodney’s finally figured out how to incorporate everything he’s learned over the last three years. They’re raring for a win, and every corps in the competitive circuit wants to beat the Wraith, winners for the last four years running.

Rodney climbs onto the bus, searching the seats until he sees John in the last one. He frowns and waves his hand at someone behind him. Ronon and Teyla board the bus behind Rodney, making their way past the odd combination of section leaders, old hands, and new recruits. This is the late man’s bus, for new kids who don’t know how early you have to show up to get on the ‘cool’ bus, old hands who could care less what bus they’re on, and people with responsibilities to take care of before they can board.

"The back of the bus, Sheppard?" Rodney whines. "Why didn’t you kick the kids out of the front two seats?"

"More privacy back here for us grownups." He raises an eyebrow at Ronon and Teyla, curled up comfortably in the seats across from him and Rodney.

"No sex on this bus," Rodney orders loudly, and several heads turn toward him and then duck down into their seats. Ronon leans down and kisses Teyla, slowly, and Rodney turns his back on them, which means he’s twisted halfway around and his knees are crowding John’s. "Tell me you brought a DS or a PSP," he says, grabbing his knapsack from the floor. When he looks up at the blank expression on John’s face, he digs deeper into his backpack and sighs. "I have a deck of cards and a chess set. What do you want?"

They play three rounds of travel chess, the last one ending in a stalemate so they’re still at one to one when John begs a break to read War and Peace. Rodney snorts and takes out the DS, and John ends up watching over his shoulder while he plays Trauma Center.

They arrive at five-thirty, the sun still high enough in the sky to do a good impression of mid-afternoon. Rodney grabs a quick dinner from the cook truck before heading off to the stands to watch.

The Wraith are based on the East Coast; they’re not going to see that show for at least three weeks. These early shows are based all around the Midwest, and they’ll be up against a bunch of Open class corps, as well as several friendly local World class competitors – Hoff, the Travelers, Manaria. The Asurans are around as well, and they’re less friendly, but John never worries about them too much. Their music is always robotic, even if their marching is eerily precise.

The Travelers look good this year, and John salutes Larrin when he sees her across the parking lot at the first show. She nods back at him, confident smirk in place, as always.

They take gender shifts changing on the buses, something John knows won’t last long. There’s always a couple of people with modesty issues, but they usually hang blankets for a makeshift boudoir until it gets too far into the summer and they sweat themselves out. In general, eyes don’t wander during changing. People are too busy working themselves into a lather about the toughest spots in the show.

John hops out the back door and lands right next to Rodney. He’s got a sno cone in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

"Here," he says, handing John the water. "You look dehydrated."

John drinks half the bottle before stealing a bite of the sno cone. Rodney waits patiently, and John would comment on the strange silence, but his nerves are getting the better of him. "Will you check my salute?" he asks, and Rodney rolls his eyes but nods.

John sets his hat on his head, straightens up, and faces Rodney. He salutes, wipes the saluting hand down the brim of his hat, and rounds his arm to bring a fist in front of his heart, all smooth and strong. Rodney smiles half-heartedly. "What?" John asks, "is it too much?"

"No, only you would think that is too much," Rodney snipes. "It’s good, the judges will eat it up."

"You don’t like it." John has no idea why he cares what Rodney thinks, he’s been figuring out his own salutes since two years before he even became drum major.

"I like it. That’s not the problem." Rodney looks worried now; why didn’t John catch that before?

"The Travelers?" John asks, because they’re the only really competition they have at this first show. "They were that good? Did Larrin steal my salute? Did she do a better one?!"

He’s tense now, and he knows it when Rodney’s hand lands on his arm, solid and supporting. "No, it’s fine. We’re going to kick ass here. Don’t worry about it."

Of course. He can’t worry about it. If he’s nervous, the corps is going to fall apart. He takes a deep breath and smiles at Rodney. "Better get back up there," he says with more cheer than he’s really feeling. "Wouldn’t want to miss anything."

Rodney heads back to the stands, and John mingles with the kids, calming down the hyper and ramping up those with stage fright. He gives a pep talk before they start the cadence that’ll take them down to the field, shading his eyes from the setting sun, thankful it'll be behind the stands while they're marching. He leads the Atlantis cheer, and the roars of ‘Atlantis’ are probably going to be on a couple of the videos of Hoff’s final fanfare.

Their crew moves in to set up their pit percussion, sound equipment, and the podiums for him and Lorne. Finally, after the longest ten minutes in history, John climbs his podium and gives Ronon the okay to start the cadence to snake the corps onto the field. They look good, formal and unyielding, and Teyla, who starts the show directly in front of his podium, winks at him. When the announcer calls out their name, the decent-sized crowd goes absolutely nuts with hoots and hollers and whistles, not to mention a couple offers of marriage. John thinks it’s a little early in the season for that, but there’s something to be said for an undying fan base.

He waits for the crowd to still, and turns around to offer his salute to the judges. He executes it perfectly, giving them his most brilliant smile when he takes off his hat and they can see his face.

He turns to his corps and gives the downbeat for the Copland. The bass drums from the field and the pit reverberate loudly in the quiet night air. As they diminish, the brass bring up their horns with a snap, and the opening theme is laid out with perfect intonation by the trumpets. They start moving, and the lines are not as perfect as he could have hoped for, but there aren’t any big mistakes. The mellophones shore up the sound and Ronon’s solid presence accounts for the drumline holding it together through a field judge who is asking to get run over.

The Barber is mellow, but they move quickly through a Mandelbrot fractal into the Julia set, and John’s pretty sure he’s the only one that knows where Rodney stole the shapes from. They look gorgeous outlined in the blue and grey of Atlantis’s uniforms, and John can’t contain his dopey grin as they move through the grids with ease in this section. As the pit percussion crescendos to the point where it’s as natural as breathing to add the brass, Teyla’s color guard take over the intricate movements, moving like water through the corps, part of the lines one moment, and their own undulating wave-shapes the next.

Disaster strikes during Johnny Cash. No one knows what he trips over, but one of the new baritone players goes down in the middle of a ridiculously complicated fast-moving line. John can’t do anything but keep conducting, and he feels a warm glow of pride as the kid drags himself out of the way of the rest of Atlantis and the onsides coaches run in to help him off the field.

The rest of the show goes off without a hitch, but John knows they’re all concerned about Kemp, so it feels wrong, plastering a fake smile on his face at the end. The applause is hushed, and the corps barely holds it together enough to snake off the field to Ronon’s strangely somber cadence. As soon as they are out of the judges’ sight, the whole corps runs to the coaches, trying to get any bit of information about their teammate.

John knows better. He goes to Elizabeth, who is standing off to the side, her hands folded in worry. "He’s fine, John," she reassures him, even though he knows it’s a lie when she tells him he was taken to the emergency room. It’s not much later that they find out he broke his ankle and he’s done marching for the season.

John makes the rounds on the corps buses, telling them all what happened, and asking for prayers and good thoughts for Kemp, as well as telling his alternate (Siler) that he’ll have to step up.

One of the coaches’ buses is staying at the hospital until Kemp’s parents can come and pick him up, but the rest Atlantis has to get on the road to Port Huron. It says a lot that no one even cares what place they got, and when John and Lorne go to the awards ceremony to get the second place trophy, there’s no one from Atlantis watching.

---

When they climb on the bus, Rodney’s got his laptop out and his earbuds jammed in his ears. John knows better than to startle him, but he’s exhausted and doesn’t have patience for anything more than pulling on his earphones. "Hey!" Rodney snaps, but then he looks up at John and gets out of his way so John can sit on the inside.

"What’s that?" John asks, looking at Rodney’s laptop. "A video of our show up already?"

"No," Rodney answers flatly, and motions with his head that Ronon and Teyla should lean in. They scoot forward and Rodney rests the laptop precariously on his knees. He leaves the earphones plugged in, so all they can hear an unidentifiable tinny backdrop, but it’s not the sound that catches their attention.

He restarts the clip from the beginning, and John sees Oberoth using his salute, the one he spent months perfecting, enough flair but not too much –

His concerns about his salute go out the window as the Asuran routine starts, and the color guard solo matches Teyla’s move for move. There are several grids that are similar to Atlantis’s as well, but the execution is different, the motion in between choppier and blocky, the way the Asurans are known for performing. Atlantis is much more fluid, and John’s grateful that if nothing else, the other corps is never going to be able to emulate their flowing transitions. They get to the drumline section and Rodney hands one of the earbuds to Ronon, who promptly turns red in rage. He stands up, unceremoniously dumping Teyla off his lap and crashing his back into the luggage rack. "I’ll kill them."

"Whoa, buddy, calm down." John glances at the front of the bus, and the few sets of eyes that turned their way turn around as soon as they see Ronon’s face. "Calm down," John says with more bite, and Ronon sits down heavily. "So you write a better cadence. You know you can. So Teyla choreographs a better solo. So we make it better. We’ve got the whole damn summer to take care of it."

"What I want to know," Rodney says with barely controlled rage, "is how the hell they got my grids. It’d be one thing if they just copied the whole show, but they don’t have the transitions – that means they don’t have videotape, only grids."

John thinks about it for a while, and decides he can’t decide. He’s too tired to care, anyway, so he shrugs it off and rests his head against the cool side of the bus. "We can worry about it tomorrow," he says, closing his eyes. When Rodney pulls John’s legs up so he can stretch out to sleep, John accepts without a fight, twisting sideways so he can rest his cheek on the seat.

The next morning begins something of a ritual for Atlantis, and John finds that not only does he like it, but as the days turn into weeks, it makes them stronger competitors.

They stop off at a high school somewhere in Indiana, and the kids climb off the bus in a stupor, blinking the sleep out of their eyes in the gray pre-dawn light. The cook truck offers a light breakfast, but most of them skip it since they know they’ll be running the show at least a couple of times to break in Siler. The sun rises as they run the show a second time.

That’s not all they do, though. Rodney starts changing their grids. He does one grid every couple of days so they don’t completely freak out, and they slowly transform their routine into something completely different. They do it slowly, taping every Asuran show they see and checking YouTube for those they miss. The Asurans change little things (and their transitions flow better as the season goes on, John’s sure they’re videotaping Atlantis as well), but by the time they meet in Atlantis’s stomping grounds for the DCI Midwest Championships, Atlantis’s routine is so different from their season opener, he doubts the judges will even recognize it.

They win the Championship with ease, and the Travelers come in second, which makes the Asurans’ third place showing all the sweeter.

They meet the Wraith for the first time in Denver, mid-summer, July, when the sun and heat are already making everyone cranky, and tempers are already high where the Wraith are concerned. The kids trade obscenities in the parking lot and John carefully reins in the troops, pulling them into the small enclave they’ve created with Atlantis's trucks and buses. He recruits the section leaders and the older kids to keep the rest of them in line, and climbs on top of one of the trucks to give a speech about doing this for Kemp. They change and gather in small clumps, the strains of the Travelers’ jazzy show echoing back to them from the field while they wait.

Their show goes off with only slight hitches here and there, one of the new grids Rodney put in for the Gershwin causing a snafu between the drumline and the color guard. The players work their way doggedly out of the mess and get a standing ovation from the crowd.

They end up in third, the Wraith winning by a huge margin. It makes John grit his teeth, but he smiles as he and Evan accept the third place trophy and clap politely as the Wraith pick up the big prize. The Genii come in second, and John huffs in disgust at the rippling muscles on their drum majors.

John and Rodney marshal Carson, Radek, and Evan into standing watch on the buses as they take roll. There’s always a danger of someone wandering off, but with the tempers as high as they are about the Wraith, he doesn’t doubt someone is going to do something stupid. They get through the first two buses without incident but as soon as they set foot on their own bus, it’s obvious they’re missing someone. Teyla’s asleep by herself in the very last seat.

John tears off the bus, leaving Rodney to wake Teyla and follow. He orders Carson not to let anyone else off, and takes off running for the purple-black Wraith vehicles. He can see the circle of kids as soon as he clears the Atlantis buses, three people deep and maybe ten feet in diameter. Ronon is head and shoulders taller than most of the Wraith kids, and he’s not sure whether or not he should be thankful that he can’t see his tall frame.

Teyla shouts as she passes him up – god but she’s fast – and he can see why as they get within a hundred yards. Ronon’s on the ground, and there are four people kicking and punching him.

Teyla worms through the crowd of Wraith kids, and aims a swift kick to an attacker’s nuts. He goes down and she jumps on the back of another. John uses his momentum to shove through to the center, and punches the third guy with an uppercut that lays him flat. Teyla’s thrown down and the circle starts to close in around her, which galvanizes Ronon enough to attempt standing.

Several screeching car alarms go off, and the Wraith scatter, gone so fast John’s head spins. As the parking lot clears and the flashing lights of four angry SUVs shed some light on the situation, Rodney joins them, swinging a large tree branch.

John takes Ronon’s weight as best he can, and Rodney replaces Teyla under Ronon’s other arm so he isn’t quite so lopsided when he limps. He looks like hell, blood flowing freely from a dozen cuts on his face and arms, bruises blooming on every visible skin surface.

They take Ronon to the coaches’ bus and their nurse cleans him up as best she can. She looks over each of the cuts and waffles about whether or not he might need stitches. When Ronon takes a deep breath to complain and goes frighteningly pale, she changes her mind and they take him straight to the hospital.

---

Ronon’s out with cracked ribs for two shows after his close call, so his alternate – Biro – gets some practice. They meet the Wraith in four of the next six towns, so the leash on the corps members is short, and the buses feel more and more like a living hell.

They institute a buddy system, which is really more like a team system. They can’t go out in groups of less than four, and preferably with at least one person who can honestly mix it up in a fight, if it comes to that.

Once Ronon’s cuts start to heal and he doesn’t go around clutching his side all the time, the tension eases up a little. The bus rides still drag on and on, but Rodney’s insistence on upgrading their routine gives them precious little time to unwind between shows.

They start to win consistently, something that’s a surprise even to old-timers like John. Their first victory against the Wraith comes at the DCI Southwest Championships, and the frustration that’s had a strangle-hold on Atlantis melts away in a blinding flash of pride and pleasure.

After the show, the Wraith retaliate by cornering four of their newest members. Atlantis takes roll at every meal now, and when four first years go missing, John goes straight to Sumner. He argues that they need every responsible hand, and Sumner allows the section leaders and anyone who’s going to age out next year to participate in the search. The Wraith are less obvious this time, having dragged the kids under the bleachers, but John went to high school too, and he knows exactly where to look when he doesn’t find them in the parking lot.

Miller, Heightmeyer, and Barrett have nothing more than bruises and scraped knuckles. Grodin, on the other hand, is shaking and holding his arm to his chest. John can tell from the unnatural bend in the middle that it’s broken, and that’s the third corps member in the emergency room this season. His opinion of Sumner goes up a notch as he and several of the coaches seek out the Wraith team’s head staff. They have a heated argument which John can hear from across the parking lot, and it’s clear that the Wraith leadership is not going to take any responsibility or discourage their corps from further violence.

He doesn’t know if Sumner plans to call the cops or not; he doubts it, since they have shows the next three days. When they climb on the bus and head to the next town without police intervention, he decides his daily pep talk should include some basic self-defense maneuvers, which Teyla demonstrates. They’ll be clear of the Wraith for ten days after Atlanta – a combined effort of moving in opposite directions and several days off before the quarterfinals in Indiana – but it takes two more tense shows before they get their respite.

The rest of the season passes without incident, thankfully, and Atlantis is in a dead heat with the Wraith. They’ve both racked up seventeen wins, but the Wraith have won four of their six matchups, so they’re seeded higher. John intends to fix that at the quarterfinals.

The last three days before quarterfinals are spent using every available second of daylight to soak up the very last drop of Rodney’s creative genius. They add movement to their still forms and Rodney forces John to conduct the Gershwin faster and faster until the corps is practically running through the incredibly intricate drill. Once they’ve done it double time, doing it the original tempo gives everyone time to be exceptionally precise, and the clear lines and diagonals they create look etched in stone. They’re as ready as they’ll ever be.

---

Most of the corps climbs onto the bus after the morning rehearsal the day before quarterfinals and try to keep from buzzing out of their skin. When he looks at Ronon and Teyla and their enviable calm, John wishes he was getting regular sex too, so it could soak up some of his excess energy.

The six hour bus ride isn’t too bad, compared to all the others they’ve had this season. They disembark at the Holiday Inn and trudge up to their assigned hotel rooms. John spreads the word about floor parties, trying to keep his people inside and away from the Wraith.

Rodney gets his own room – one of the perks of being staff. He invites John to stay with him, which means Teyla can stay with Ronon and Carson can stay in Cadman’s room. Lorne moves into Zelenka’s bed, and John really hadn’t seen that one coming. They room-wrangling lasts for a little over an hour as one person after the next jumps ship and joins their girlfriend or boyfriend in a room with an open spot.

John checks in on everybody once the not-too-subtle sneaking down the hallway is finished, partially because Rodney loves gossip and he likes to oblige and partially because he wants to know where every single one of his people are.

Once everyone’s settled for the night and the floor parties are in full swing (with several of the coaches ensconced in the stairways and the lobby so no one leaves the building), John comes back with a couple of beers he stole off Carson.

"Here," he says, twisting the cap off one and handing it to Rodney. "I think we deserve this."

"Cheers," Rodney says and they clink their bottles together and get comfortable. They flip through the cable channels as John dishes details about who is staying where. He saves the Evan/Radek matchup until Rodney takes a nice-sized gulp of beer. It spurts out his nose and gets all over John, but he doesn’t care – it was worth it.

"I didn’t even know Lorne was gay," Rodney says, and John shrugs.

"I didn’t know Zelenka was gay."

"I knew that," Rodney says, looking away quickly, "but I thought Lorne hooked up with what’s-her-face last summer."

"Lindsey Novak?" John asks. Novak and Biro are bunking together this year.

"Maybe," Rodney says, interrupting John’s train of thought. "Maybe he’s bi."

"Are you looking to tap Lorne?" John teases, though he regrets it when Rodney’s face screws up into something uncomfortably complicated. "Oh my god, you are!" John shouldn’t mind, he tells himself, he shouldn’t care that Rodney’s had sex with Radek and wants to have sex with Evan and hell, he could have sex with the entire corps, and John shouldn’t mind.

"No, I don’t like Evan," Rodney says, and John nods, releasing his held breath slowly so Rodney doesn’t notice. "And I haven’t had sex with Radek, either. We… understand each other."

"Hey," John says, putting his hands up genially. "You can have sex with anyone you want, I’m not –"

"John," Rodney says, exasperation heavy in his tone. "I want to have sex with you."

John blinks stupidly. Rodney. Sex. What? "Me?" he asks, because it’s not like Rodney’s paraded people through their apartment, but he’s never given any indication…

Rodney’s fingers circle John’s wrist, a simple gesture he uses all the time, to drag John across the apartment to the TV, to pull him to the cook truck when he’s not eating enough, to – Oh.

Rodney’s waiting, watching. He wonders if Rodney can see the gears turning, if he has any doubt about the outcome. Because, man, considering John feels like his entire universe just turned inside out, Rodney seems remarkably calm, leaning back against the headboard, bottle in one hand and John in the other.

Rodney slides his hand up, gripping John’s forearm firmly. It’s another common gesture between them. Rodney uses it to reassure him, to steady him, to hold him in place when he’s bouncing off the walls. John opens his mouth because he should say something, or maybe because he can’t seem to catch his breath.

Rodney sits up and leans in to trace his way up John’s arm. He stops briefly at his bicep, and John can remember with perfect clarity the two times Rodney ever touched him there – strong, unyielding, pulling John back from the edge.

His hand skims right over John's shoulder and thank god, because John's getting the idea here, and he doesn't need a mental replay of every friendly clap on the back to understand that three years of living together has been the world’s longest, slowest foreplay.

John surges forward and bumps their mouths together gracelessly, and Rodney steadies him with the hand on his shoulder, nudging his mouth against John’s.

The clink of the beer bottles in their hands breaks them apart long enough for John to set them on the night table and Rodney to slide down the bed, t-shirt rucked up and belly exposed. John doesn’t care much about his own skin, but he’s always had a thing for other people’s, and Rodney is no exception. He throws a knee over Rodney’s legs and licks a stripe across the exposed skin, which makes Rodney suck in a tremulous breath. He pushes the t-shirt up Rodney’s chest, over his head and off the side of the bed. The oversized diver’s watch on his scrawny arm looks oddly out of place, like a kid playing dress-up with his dad’s watch. John kisses Rodney’s palm before he takes it off, tilting his head into Rodney’s searching fingers.

"John," Rodney whispers, and John revels in the throaty incoherence of his voice. He sucks at this, he’s always been too busy to take people up on their offers, or too lazy, or simply uninterested. He doesn’t know what to do, not really, but he doesn’t worry about it because this is Rodney, and he’s the only person that’s honestly touched John in the last three years, so John figures the least he can do is return the favor.

He slinks his way up Rodney’s body, dropping kisses randomly on his pale chest and ridiculously dark farmer’s tan. John laughs softly when he licks the demarcation on Rodney’s biceps, where translucently pale meets tan-by-excess-freckles. By the time John reaches his mouth, Rodney’s greedy and frustrated, and John's worry about his inexperience evaporates as Rodney tugs him in for a kiss, hands hot on his neck.

Rodney is demanding and aggressive, his tongue pushing into John’s mouth while his thumb on John’s jaw encourages him to open, more, more, more. Rodney's stripping his clothes off before John can even process he's on his back, and when the hell did that happen? He's almost certain he should have noticed.

John likes to look, but he can't see. He tugs at Rodney’s pants, wanting to lathe his tongue along the line that separates the part of Rodney that’s kissed by the sun from the part of Rodney no one gets to see but John. Rodney, though, Rodney likes to touch, and he knows John’s weak spots from hundreds of tickle fights in front of the TV.

He strokes John, pressure enough to skid right past ticklish into white-hot lightning bolts. John had some control over this at some point, he knows he did; he remembers the taste of Rodney’s skin against his tongue. He reaches weakly for Rodney as he tries to reciprocate, tries to touch, even to rest his hand against Rodney’s face, to say thank you and please.

Then Rodney’s mouth is on his cock, smooth, warm, wet, fuck, yes please! Rodney doesn't even start to move before John is coming in his mouth and shit, isn’t that a faux pas? The one girl who’d blown him in the past spit his come in his face and he swore he would never let anyone go down on him ever again.

Rodney smiles up at him, clearly pleased with himself, and John’s worry about inadequacy comes back to him in a rush. Rodney’s still got his boxers on and christ, that boner has got to hurt. John reaches out tentatively, cupping it through the thin cotton sheath of the boxers. Rodney’s eyes close and his head falls, giving John enough confidence to tuck his hand in under Rodney’s waistband and curl his fist around Rodney’s cock. Rodney’s hips move up into his hand, thrusting twice before John pulls or strokes or does anything, and then Rodney’s cock is pulsing in his hand, and all John can think is, cool.

Winning the quarterfinals is icing on the cake.

On to part 2