A little short and with spoilers for Grace Under Pressure

Oo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oO

Their first kiss has all the substance of an exhalation: breath ghosting over lips that are moist from the sweep of a nervous tongue; a contact so brief it's barely there, yet enough to make heartbeats quicken and palms rub over sweat-damp fabric. The next try is bolder, if anxious still: a sharing of warmth, a discovery of softness. The promise of taste if only one would linger, if one were to let go of life-long tethers, the dread of being left behind.

They pull apart, gazes meeting for the fraction of a second before they dart away. This should be easy, friendship and trust slowly evolved into something deeper, a want that's sharp enough to scar. It should be taking breath for the first time, together, instead of holding in air that's grown stale inside of frozen lungs.

A step, approach or invitation, it doesn't matter. The space between them closes for one more attempt, one more try at happiness. Third time's the charm, they say; the third time counts. And it does count, this kiss, like the slow pulse of a sleeping lover or the startling smile of a man thought lost. A touch that smothers lasting doubts, that gently drowns the fear of water and a lonely death. A kiss that deepens without conscious thought, that gives and takes with slow caress. A kiss that's tongues and taste and bodies pressing closer, and closer yet, until there is nothing between them but fabric and skin and the rush of blood, and the confirmation that this is what they always were.

A sigh, "Rodney," fingers tangling and holding on, a smile that jumps from one pair of lips to another. A moan, "John," the knowledge that this is right, this is truth. They kiss for a minute, an hour, or maybe forever; they don't care.

All that matters is them.