Fandom: House/Stargate Atlantis
Word count: 680 words
Summary: "Never really liked summers," Rodney says.
Notes: Self-indulgent weatherfic that takes place toward the end of High School Is Not Another Name For Hell. Un-betaed, because I'm just being hard core like that. Title stolen from U2. Yes, I like making them long.
Early summer, and House is leaving soon, leaving Canada, leaving Rodney, but that's not now, so Rodney doesn't think about it.
The air is warmer and muggier, but it's still cool enough that Rodney's not bothered so much by it. House's skin is sweaty under his tongue, and they're tangled together on Rodney's single bed, messing up his sky-blue sheets, and Rodney thinks of dragging this moment out forever, inventing a time machine so that he can freeze the salty taste of House's sweat, the clean, soap scent of House's shampoo, the way it feels to fit against someone he knows and understands and quite possibly cares about.
"Your boxers suck," House says into Rodney's hair, probably insulting the ones he's wearing right now, dark blue decorated with tropical fish, and Rodney wants to save this too, the disdain and affection mingling in House's voice.
"You know you like them," Rodney says, listening for the hitch of breath as he bites House right behind the ear, waiting for the next moment to come.
It makes Rodney feel all of about five years old, but when the ice cream truck starts coming by late-May, early-June, every day he always gets at least one ice cream sandwich (for himself), and when he's feeling nice, one of those double-cherry popsicles (for Jeannie). It usually swings by the McKay residence at 3:32pm, right around the time the temperature and humidity gets unbearable, and Rodney's gotten used to timing his days around the distant sound of Für Elise on cheap speakers.
The first time it comes around this year, they're studying for finals (though neither of them really needs to, it's just an excuse to spend more time together) and House says, "Of course you drop everything for the ice cream truck," when Rodney starts heading out the door at the first sign of music.
Rodney says, "It's ice cream." Because, really, does anyone need a better explanation than that?
Despite his whining, House gets a vanilla cone, topped with hot fudge and nuts, and Rodney gets his usual. The weather's hot, but dry, bright summer sun, and they eat on the curb, watching as some of the neighborhood kids go by on bikes, laughing as they chase each other up and down the street. Rodney wants to complain about the way there aren't enough trees around (he's going to get sunburned, his skin too pale), about the way the back of his neck is incredibly gross from sweat, about the way there's too much glare from everything, making him squint.
"Never really liked summers," Rodney says, instead. He doesn't say that he loves the summer constellations best: Sagittarius, the Archer; Cygnus, the Swan; Pegasus, the Winged Horse, that he's spent too many nights in his backyard, telescope in hand, watching the night sky.
Next to him, House snorts around his cone, his mouth smudged brown and white, shining a little in the sun.
Rodney's by the window when it begins to pour, sudden only in the sense that it's just been humid and miserable all day, and Rodney wasn't sure when it would ever actually start raining and put him out of his misery. The sun shines through the clouds, filtering through the haze, and a cool breeze comes in through the window that helps dry the sweat from his skin.
Rodney's never been one to sit still for too long, but he finds himself thinking, watching the water pour down from the skies, wondering where House is right now. Probably in his room, doing homework. Two weeks, four days, and he's gone. Rodney thinks that maybe they should be spending more time together, holding on to what they have, but right now it's raining outside, and all Rodney can do is wait for it to stop. In the distance, there's the rumble of thunder.
His body still feels sticky from sweat, humidity still thick in his small room, so he sticks his hand out the window, letting the rain trickle through his fingers, washing them clean.