![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who: Rufus Kearney & Rory Fairfax.
When: August 13, ~1 a.m. (after the Equinox soft launch)
Where: Some mountain SE of Burlington.
What: Rufus agrees to watch a meteor shower, Rory agrees to ride a motorcycle, everyone wins.
Warnings: Brief mention of motorcycle accidents. 100% unadulterated romo content; read at your own risk.
When they pull up to the spot Rory had indicated would be ideal for watching the summer meteor shower, Rufus does so more smoothly than his usual off-roading. No sprays of dirt as he quickly turns while hitting the brakes; he's got precious cargo, after all, and he's been on his best behavior – including drastically limiting how much wine he actually consumed during the soft launch earlier in the evening – from the moment he got Rory to agree to mount up behind him.
The comparative silence of the night is briefly overwhelming, stark against the sudden absence of the low grumble of the bike's motor before the usual sounds inch back into focus again. Leaves rustling in the soft breeze. An owl, somewhere close, hooting its displeasure at the imposition of two humans. It feels almost disrespectful to add his voice to the mix, so he keeps his low, just in case. "Here okay?"
It's a few seconds before the adrenaline ebbs enough for Rory to regroup and nod against his back, and a couple more before he remembers it's on him to pat Rufus's shoulder, flagging his intention to dismount. He trades the footpegs for solid ground, and with it, apprehension for relief — even if tinged with the inevitable disappointment that follows an abrupt slow-down despite how their high speeds were won by shaving a few months off Rory's lifespan; and even if he's got a well-documented dramatic streak when it comes to Rufus's passion for dangerous modes of transportation.
But if he agrees to a ride (which he did, because it lit Rufus up in a rare way that he's come to covet), it's bad manners to rattle off accident statistics (which to his credit he did not).
"Not as bad at night," Rory concedes in a voice just as low, shaking out his hair.
Out here, it's dark enough that Rufus doesn't get to spy on this captivating little gesture through his mirrors – luckily he turns just in time to catch some of it, and whistles low as he pulls his helmet off and smooths his own hair back down (business-like, un-sexy). "All right, handsome." He earns a wink from Rory, who's decided that they're entitled to one (1) motorcycle-related fantasy and it starts (and ends?) with exactly that whistle.
Once the bike is stabilized on its kickstand, Rufus leans forward to rummage in the saddlebag, from which emerges a blanket (to sit on, once Rory has confirmed a good spot) and a thermos, which he passes to Rory with an accompanying squeeze of his shoulder. "Got your legs back?"
The theatre of Rory's sigh may be the loudest thing since the bike's engine. He cuts it like the responsible mountain-visitor he is and tosses his arms around Rufus's shoulders from behind, the leather-on-leather of their jackets adhering to each other, the thermos dangling from a finger in front of the other man's chest. "Nah. They're toast!" While he'd be in bed and surrendering to exhaustion if they'd stayed back, apparently getting off-station with Rufus doubles as an easy pick-me-up. He'd promised his best behaviour and he'd delivered—mostly—which he's pretty sure means he's earned being as annoying as he wants, at least until Rufus tosses him off the aforementioned mountain.
Rory leans into his ear and whispers "You'll have to carry me." Don't. "I can't go on." He's walking right now, albeit clinging to Rufus's back lends a stagger to his gait. "It's so tragic." Is just another word for 'ridiculous.'
"All those hours in the gym…" Rufus replies on his next step forward, a mournful note finding its way into his voice as he thinks about those powerful glutes and quads that have been utterly decimated by riding shotgun on what is, ultimately, a fairly comfortable cruising bike. "It is tragic." He keeps walking, trusting Rory will give him some indication when to turn or stop, though his pace begins to slow when they reach a grassy knoll that is clear of trees.
And he does — by peeling himself off Rufus's back and marking the moment with an ass smack that he'd argue provided the force necessary to separate. And you can trust him on this because he's enrolled in an introductory physics class that hasn't even started yet. A guaranteed expert!
"Would you be watching if it weren't for me?" He asks as he tosses a stick to one side like some bowerbird preparing for his palace, and motions for Rufus to pass over the blanket. There's a hundred reasons to live in the backyard of a mountain range, with ready access to stargazing vistas easily making the top ten. "Or's staring at the sky more of a Fairfax Special."
"Tonight specifically?" Rufus keeps one end of the blanket trapped between his fingers after passing the other to Rory, and together they unfold it so it can be stretched out across the ground. "Probably not. Guess I fell out of stargazing after I left the park service. Definitely more a Fairfax Special."
And so Rory adds Riding to a remote summit in the middle of the night to literally just look up for a couple hours to the list of things Rufus would apparently do. For him. It seems to grow longer every few days, and the notion keeps him warm even as he shrugs off his jacket and reaches out again, this time to pull Rufus down with him. "If you ooh and ahh good enough I might invite you back out for October's."
"Ahh –" impertinent; "– so this is an audition." The sass doesn't hold Rufus back from finding his place at Rory's side; it does, however, lead him to knocking his hip against the other man's before he settles on the ground, resting his weight on his elbows as he tilts his head back to look at the sky. "So what're we looking at tonight?"
"The Perseids," Rory replies, aware of how unhelpful only the name is — he's simmering (teasingly) on the insolence and he'll take his time. Which includes shifting down from Rufus's side until he can rest his head on the man's midsection, hands clasped over his own. He counts the rise and fall of Rufus's breath as the sky envelopes above him, stars twinkling gradually into focus, and only deigns to continue (softer now without the crunch of rocks and sticks beneath their boots) after he reaches five. "A comet left some space trash lyin' around in our orbit a while back, and in like... twenty minutes or so, when our eyes adjust, we'll get to watch it turn into fireballs. Kinda metal."
Rufus can’t suppress the huff of laughter a while back invokes, because Rory’s casual summary encapsulates cosmic events which happened so long ago, at such scale, that his brain twinges just thinking about it. So he doesn’t, supplementing his audible amusement by carding his fingers through Rory’s hair. “So how many times have you seen this show?”
His breathing slows and his shrug is small, everything measured so Rufus's fingers remain undisturbed. "Never kept count? I try 'n catch it every year, though, so... maybe like. I dunno. Twenty-something?"
A band of warmth tightens around Rufus' heart as he's let into this little ritual. "Well." And he pauses, feeling strangely, pleasantly unrushed, held in a moment where all he wants to do is continue running his fingers through Rory's hair and feel the weight of his head against his belly like a lodestone. A full minute or so later, he finally completes the thought: "Hopefully you'll have me around for the twenty-something-first."
"That all?" slips out before Rory has the chance to decide if it's a notion he's willing to admit right now, too relaxed against Rufus to bother consulting the boundaries they'd so carefully restructured over the past few months. "Reckon you could aim higher." The sentiment's plain, and he tilts his head just enough to catch Rufus's eye, if he looks down. If Rufus gets to ask for another year, then Rory can up the ante — and while his counter may be less well-defined, it's no less committed. "I reckon you should."
Just so happens that Rufus is looking down, because his twenty-something-first came with an abruptly urgent need to work out what Rory thought about it before he even had a chance to reply. And what he sees bolsters him.
"... and second, and third. As high as you can count." He slips his fingers over Rory's scalp, marching them over the sensitive inch of skin behind the shell of his ear to deliver a light tug of his earlobe. "Infinity."
Rory's not sure if the shiver unfurling from his neck down his spine is from other man's touch or words when he reaches up to lay his fingertips atop Rufus's, curl his fingers between knuckles until they're tangled together.
There's... too many things he wants to say because every single one of them would be true, from 'It's a start' to 'I'm in love with you.' And he doesn't need to buy time—they've just bought themselves an infinite amount, after all—but he still does, running his thumb along the creases in Rufus's palm while he considers their last few years together, regardless of configurations and labels. "That's what I want."
To Rufus, this is Rory at his softest, and he knows that infinity encompasses all that he's willing to give him. He knows too that he is capable of a stupid amount of possessiveness – even now, a part of him is slightly annoyed that space debris is about to steal Rory's attention away from him – and he gives Rory's fingers a squeeze to add some physical dimension to the sentiment.
"You got it," he murmurs. "I promise."
Intimate conversations with Rufus, stoic that he is, always feel like a privilege, like little—but never insignificant—secrets Rory's let in on. He punctuates his squeeze back with "I know," propping himself on an elbow until they're level. "Like how I know y'all should be kissing me right now."
Even in the darkness, Rufus' amusement is clear, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he huffs off a soft laugh. "Kissing you under some shooting stars?" comes as he reaches up to rest his hand across Rory's nape in an unspoken nudge to come down, to come closer. "Why, I think I might just."
When: August 13, ~1 a.m. (after the Equinox soft launch)
Where: Some mountain SE of Burlington.
What: Rufus agrees to watch a meteor shower, Rory agrees to ride a motorcycle, everyone wins.
Warnings: Brief mention of motorcycle accidents. 100% unadulterated romo content; read at your own risk.
When they pull up to the spot Rory had indicated would be ideal for watching the summer meteor shower, Rufus does so more smoothly than his usual off-roading. No sprays of dirt as he quickly turns while hitting the brakes; he's got precious cargo, after all, and he's been on his best behavior – including drastically limiting how much wine he actually consumed during the soft launch earlier in the evening – from the moment he got Rory to agree to mount up behind him.
The comparative silence of the night is briefly overwhelming, stark against the sudden absence of the low grumble of the bike's motor before the usual sounds inch back into focus again. Leaves rustling in the soft breeze. An owl, somewhere close, hooting its displeasure at the imposition of two humans. It feels almost disrespectful to add his voice to the mix, so he keeps his low, just in case. "Here okay?"
It's a few seconds before the adrenaline ebbs enough for Rory to regroup and nod against his back, and a couple more before he remembers it's on him to pat Rufus's shoulder, flagging his intention to dismount. He trades the footpegs for solid ground, and with it, apprehension for relief — even if tinged with the inevitable disappointment that follows an abrupt slow-down despite how their high speeds were won by shaving a few months off Rory's lifespan; and even if he's got a well-documented dramatic streak when it comes to Rufus's passion for dangerous modes of transportation.
But if he agrees to a ride (which he did, because it lit Rufus up in a rare way that he's come to covet), it's bad manners to rattle off accident statistics (which to his credit he did not).
"Not as bad at night," Rory concedes in a voice just as low, shaking out his hair.
Out here, it's dark enough that Rufus doesn't get to spy on this captivating little gesture through his mirrors – luckily he turns just in time to catch some of it, and whistles low as he pulls his helmet off and smooths his own hair back down (business-like, un-sexy). "All right, handsome." He earns a wink from Rory, who's decided that they're entitled to one (1) motorcycle-related fantasy and it starts (and ends?) with exactly that whistle.
Once the bike is stabilized on its kickstand, Rufus leans forward to rummage in the saddlebag, from which emerges a blanket (to sit on, once Rory has confirmed a good spot) and a thermos, which he passes to Rory with an accompanying squeeze of his shoulder. "Got your legs back?"
The theatre of Rory's sigh may be the loudest thing since the bike's engine. He cuts it like the responsible mountain-visitor he is and tosses his arms around Rufus's shoulders from behind, the leather-on-leather of their jackets adhering to each other, the thermos dangling from a finger in front of the other man's chest. "Nah. They're toast!" While he'd be in bed and surrendering to exhaustion if they'd stayed back, apparently getting off-station with Rufus doubles as an easy pick-me-up. He'd promised his best behaviour and he'd delivered—mostly—which he's pretty sure means he's earned being as annoying as he wants, at least until Rufus tosses him off the aforementioned mountain.
Rory leans into his ear and whispers "You'll have to carry me." Don't. "I can't go on." He's walking right now, albeit clinging to Rufus's back lends a stagger to his gait. "It's so tragic." Is just another word for 'ridiculous.'
"All those hours in the gym…" Rufus replies on his next step forward, a mournful note finding its way into his voice as he thinks about those powerful glutes and quads that have been utterly decimated by riding shotgun on what is, ultimately, a fairly comfortable cruising bike. "It is tragic." He keeps walking, trusting Rory will give him some indication when to turn or stop, though his pace begins to slow when they reach a grassy knoll that is clear of trees.
And he does — by peeling himself off Rufus's back and marking the moment with an ass smack that he'd argue provided the force necessary to separate. And you can trust him on this because he's enrolled in an introductory physics class that hasn't even started yet. A guaranteed expert!
"Would you be watching if it weren't for me?" He asks as he tosses a stick to one side like some bowerbird preparing for his palace, and motions for Rufus to pass over the blanket. There's a hundred reasons to live in the backyard of a mountain range, with ready access to stargazing vistas easily making the top ten. "Or's staring at the sky more of a Fairfax Special."
"Tonight specifically?" Rufus keeps one end of the blanket trapped between his fingers after passing the other to Rory, and together they unfold it so it can be stretched out across the ground. "Probably not. Guess I fell out of stargazing after I left the park service. Definitely more a Fairfax Special."
And so Rory adds Riding to a remote summit in the middle of the night to literally just look up for a couple hours to the list of things Rufus would apparently do. For him. It seems to grow longer every few days, and the notion keeps him warm even as he shrugs off his jacket and reaches out again, this time to pull Rufus down with him. "If you ooh and ahh good enough I might invite you back out for October's."
"Ahh –" impertinent; "– so this is an audition." The sass doesn't hold Rufus back from finding his place at Rory's side; it does, however, lead him to knocking his hip against the other man's before he settles on the ground, resting his weight on his elbows as he tilts his head back to look at the sky. "So what're we looking at tonight?"
"The Perseids," Rory replies, aware of how unhelpful only the name is — he's simmering (teasingly) on the insolence and he'll take his time. Which includes shifting down from Rufus's side until he can rest his head on the man's midsection, hands clasped over his own. He counts the rise and fall of Rufus's breath as the sky envelopes above him, stars twinkling gradually into focus, and only deigns to continue (softer now without the crunch of rocks and sticks beneath their boots) after he reaches five. "A comet left some space trash lyin' around in our orbit a while back, and in like... twenty minutes or so, when our eyes adjust, we'll get to watch it turn into fireballs. Kinda metal."
Rufus can’t suppress the huff of laughter a while back invokes, because Rory’s casual summary encapsulates cosmic events which happened so long ago, at such scale, that his brain twinges just thinking about it. So he doesn’t, supplementing his audible amusement by carding his fingers through Rory’s hair. “So how many times have you seen this show?”
His breathing slows and his shrug is small, everything measured so Rufus's fingers remain undisturbed. "Never kept count? I try 'n catch it every year, though, so... maybe like. I dunno. Twenty-something?"
A band of warmth tightens around Rufus' heart as he's let into this little ritual. "Well." And he pauses, feeling strangely, pleasantly unrushed, held in a moment where all he wants to do is continue running his fingers through Rory's hair and feel the weight of his head against his belly like a lodestone. A full minute or so later, he finally completes the thought: "Hopefully you'll have me around for the twenty-something-first."
"That all?" slips out before Rory has the chance to decide if it's a notion he's willing to admit right now, too relaxed against Rufus to bother consulting the boundaries they'd so carefully restructured over the past few months. "Reckon you could aim higher." The sentiment's plain, and he tilts his head just enough to catch Rufus's eye, if he looks down. If Rufus gets to ask for another year, then Rory can up the ante — and while his counter may be less well-defined, it's no less committed. "I reckon you should."
Just so happens that Rufus is looking down, because his twenty-something-first came with an abruptly urgent need to work out what Rory thought about it before he even had a chance to reply. And what he sees bolsters him.
"... and second, and third. As high as you can count." He slips his fingers over Rory's scalp, marching them over the sensitive inch of skin behind the shell of his ear to deliver a light tug of his earlobe. "Infinity."
Rory's not sure if the shiver unfurling from his neck down his spine is from other man's touch or words when he reaches up to lay his fingertips atop Rufus's, curl his fingers between knuckles until they're tangled together.
There's... too many things he wants to say because every single one of them would be true, from 'It's a start' to 'I'm in love with you.' And he doesn't need to buy time—they've just bought themselves an infinite amount, after all—but he still does, running his thumb along the creases in Rufus's palm while he considers their last few years together, regardless of configurations and labels. "That's what I want."
To Rufus, this is Rory at his softest, and he knows that infinity encompasses all that he's willing to give him. He knows too that he is capable of a stupid amount of possessiveness – even now, a part of him is slightly annoyed that space debris is about to steal Rory's attention away from him – and he gives Rory's fingers a squeeze to add some physical dimension to the sentiment.
"You got it," he murmurs. "I promise."
Intimate conversations with Rufus, stoic that he is, always feel like a privilege, like little—but never insignificant—secrets Rory's let in on. He punctuates his squeeze back with "I know," propping himself on an elbow until they're level. "Like how I know y'all should be kissing me right now."
Even in the darkness, Rufus' amusement is clear, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he huffs off a soft laugh. "Kissing you under some shooting stars?" comes as he reaches up to rest his hand across Rory's nape in an unspoken nudge to come down, to come closer. "Why, I think I might just."