Work Text:
“You’re the most objective one in the band,” Rodney said.
John looked up, surprised, from where he was tuning his guitar. “Objective about what?” He certainly wasn’t objective about Rodney’s music, or his smile, or the way he did their sound.
“About my music.” Rodney sat down beside him, his knee brushing John’s.
John curled his hand into a fist to stop himself from flinching, his nerves jangling from the warmth of Rodney’s closeness. “If you think so.”
“I know so,” Rodney said, with the same blithe confidence with which he’d belittled their high school physics teacher. “So, tell me what you think.” He held out a sheet of paper with a chord pattern. “Play. I’ll sing. I know I’m no you, but I can carry a tune.”
“You can,” John said evenly. He studied the chords, tested them. Mostly natural chords, a few sharp chords. Not nearly as complicated as some of the songs Rodney had written. The melody was cute, pop-friendly, with some of the off-beat metaphors Rodney liked (“You are the night light ripping through my wicked world”). The chorus hooked him behind the navel and sucked him in, made it hard to breathe. It wasn’t sweeping and profound, wasn’t swelling and orchestral, wasn’t ornate and trilling.
It was just everything John wanted to say to Rodney.
This is for real
This time I mean it
I’m coming clean, please don’t let go
I said from the start that you could take it or leave it
I’d prefer that you keep it
Don’t let go
John wanted to come clean, to tell Rodney he knew the truth, that Rodney’s music was beautiful, a fraction as beautiful as his soul. John wanted to tell Rodney that Rodney had had his heart since that first time he’d sat down beside John and asked him to listen to one of his songs, that John had surrendered it gladly and Rodney could take it or leave it, but John wanted him to keep it and never let it go.
Instead he said nothing, strummed along, and listened to Rodney sing the cold truth in John’s soul.
“Well?” Rodney asked, after the last notes of the song faded.
“It’s good,” John said honestly.
Rodney squinted at him. Then he said, “You’re lying to me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You’re afraid of me,” Rodney said.
John raised his eyebrows. “Really? Me? Afraid of you?”
“After all those times in school when you were obviously my intellectual inferior -”
Well, John had played stupid to deliberately goad Rodney into noticing him more than once. “I’m not your musical inferior,” John said, and that brought Rodney up short.
“You’re out of practice.”
“How so?”
“As a performer.”
“You haven’t performed since you were twelve. And I’ve been playing weekly gigs for the past three months, in addition to nightly practice.” John scanned the lyric sheet and chord sheet. “It’s a good song, Rodney. Relax.”
“Are you sure?”
And John realized Rodney wasn’t being confrontational. He was nervous. “Have you had anyone else sing it for you?”
“I recorded myself.”
“Not the same thing.” John cleared his throat, started up the chords, and stumbled his way through the song as best as he could. He kept his gaze on his hands, pretending to watch the transitions, but he’d always had the singular gift of being able to memorize a song after a couple of passes. Rodney’s gaze on him was warm, intense, and John was still hyperaware of how close they were sitting, of Rodney’s knee pressed against his.
When he finished the song, he was jolted out of his singing mien by Rodney attempting a manly clap on the shoulder and instead hitting him too hard. “You’re right. It is a good song. Thanks for the feedback. What do you think of playing it at the gig on Friday? Yes? Awesome. Let Ronon and Teyla know!”
Rodney was out of the garage and in his car before John could protest. A brand new song for Friday? Was Rodney insane?
No, John was the insane one, because he would ask, and Ronon would swear, and Teyla would sigh, and Jennifer would try to cover her panic with optimism, and they would practice and practice and practice it extra, and when John got up onstage, he’d pour his heart out to Rodney, and Rodney would only be looking at Jennifer.