The Best Days of My Life

~1700 words :: Stargate: Atlantis :: John/Ronon :: 4/16/10
Ronon pushes himself up onto his elbows. He reaches out and traces the purple bruise running down John’s side. It’s all he can do not to press on it.

They slow down as they come to the end of Cedar, jog across the street and into the park on legs that feel like they’re about to collapse. At least Ronon’s do, but he can’t imagine John’s in any better shape.

Ronon jogs straight through to the far side of the park, not bothering with the winding path, and throws himself down on the grass at the bottom of the hill. It’s wet with dew, but his clothes were already soaked, so fuck it. The cold feels good anyway. His eyes are closed, but he can hear John above him breathing heavily, and when he cracks one eye open and peers up, he sees John bent over, hands on his knees, grinning broadly.

“Fuck,” John gasps.

“Yeah,” Ronon says, clasping his hands together over his head and stretching. He should get up and do some proper stretches, but he doesn’t move. “Sure you don’t want to join the dark side? Garcia said he’ll still let you on the team, but you gotta make a decision before school starts.”

“I made my decision.” John drops to his knees, grabs Ronon’s hand and presses it to his half-hard dick. “You gonna jerk me off after every race?”

Ronon snorts. “What makes you think I’m gonna jerk you off now?” he says, pulling his hand away.

“You know you want it.”

It’s kind of undeniable, the way Ronon’s dick’s tenting his shorts, but he just says, “Someone might see us.”

John rolls his eyes. “It’s like five a.m.”


“Same difference,” John says, stretching out next to him. He scoots closer and Ronon rolls onto his side to face him. He shoves his hand down Ronon’s shorts and says, “Anyway, I like football.”

“Huh?” Ronon might have been able to follow that train of thought if John’s hand weren’t wrapped around his dick.

“You asked about the team.”

“Oh,” he says. “Right.” But he’s got his hand in John’s pants now and he really doesn’t feel like talking anymore.

Afterwards, they both roll onto their backs and hitch their shorts up. Ronon scrubs his hand on the grass, but it still smells like sweaty dick.

“You don’t even get to play, man.”

John sits up and shrugs. “So?” He pulls off his shirt and throws it at Ronon’s head, but Ronon bats it away. “I still don’t want to do cross country.”

“But you like running.”

“I like football better.”

“Whatever.” Ronon pushes himself up onto his elbows. He reaches out and traces the purple bruise running down John’s side. It’s all he can do not to press on it. “You get that in practice?”

“Nah, I wiped out on Grand View again.”

Ronon frowns at the thought of John doing stupid shit like that without him. He doesn’t ask if John went home and jerked off afterwards. He knows the answer. It’s in his head now, playing out a dozen different ways at once.

Instead he says, “You’re fucking insane, you know,” and lets his thumb dig in just a little, then a little more until John’s eyes are wide, his lips parted, and Ronon knows without looking that John’s as hard as he is.

“You love it,” John says a little breathlessly, and Ronon jerks his hand away.

“You love my dick,” he says automatically.

John laughs and stretches. There’s another bruise on his hipbone, poking out above the waistband of his shorts. “Who told you that?”

“Your mom.” There are cars on the street now, people going to work, but it’s still too early for anyone to be at the park. Probably. Ronon lifts his hips off the ground, pushes his shorts and underpants down around his thighs.

John says, “Fuck you,” but he’s already bending down, breath warm on Ronon’s dick, and Ronon pushes John’s head down further so he doesn’t have to think about those bruises anymore.

Ronon looks at John and then down Grand View. It starts off with a long, gentle slope, then just when you’re speeding up, two small bumps where tree roots have pushed the sidewalk up, before it drops so steeply it looks like the end of the world from up here. They’ve done it before on bikes, zooming down and turning off into the dirt lot at the corner so they don’t shoot straight into traffic.

Ronon wouldn’t do it on a skateboard if you paid him.

“You’re gonna kill yourself.”


Ronon rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“It’s fun. You should try it.”

“Someone’s gotta drag your corpse home.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” John says, and pushes off.

Ronon sighs, flips his board up into his hand, and jogs after him. This is not going to end any different than the time before or the time before that. He’s pretty sure John doesn’t even care. He’s pretty sure that’s maybe the point.

First bump okay. John comes down a little wobbly, but manages to keep his balance. It’s the second one that’s tricky, though, the hill already pretty steep, and sure enough, John goes flying. He lands mostly in someone’s garden and his board flips onto its back, slides to a stop halfway down the hill.

“Told you,” Ronon says, crouching down next to him.

John just lies there grinning. The left side of his face is pretty scraped up from whatever brambly thing that is next to him. There are bright red drops of blood beading up on his cheek and Ronon can’t look away.

“Your mom at work?” John says, wiping his cheek on his sleeve. It just smears the blood around.

“It’s, like, two o’clock in the afternoon. Where else would she be?”

“Just making sure,” John says, pushing himself up. Ronon picks a couple leaves out of his hair. “Race you back?”

John doesn’t wait for an answer, but it’s not like he could beat Ronon even if he didn’t have to slow down to grab his board.

When they round the last corner before Ronon’s house, he half expects to see his mom’s car in the driveway. Stupid John, making him paranoid. The only reason she’d be home early is if she were sick, and she never gets sick.

They leave their skateboards on the porch and Ronon digs in his pocket for his housekey. John is bouncing on the balls of his feet, still grinning. Still bleeding.

There’s no way Ronon’s mom is going to come home now, but he closes and locks the door behind them anyway, just in case. He closes the door to his bedroom, too, because it’s just weird fucking with the door open.

Ronon clears his sketchbooks and markers off the bed and John reaches under it for the box of old legos, rummages through for the condoms and lube at the bottom. It takes too long to get undressed, too long to get the condom on and slicked up. The bruise on John’s ribs is faded now, yellow-green and splotchy, but there’s a darker one on his ass and another on his shoulder, and if Ronon happens to touch all of them, it’s only because he needs to steady himself.

The sounds John makes when he does are just a bonus.

“To our last week of freedom,” John says, clinking his bottle against Ronon’s.

Ronon takes a swig and tries not to make a face, chugs the rest of the bottle just to get it over with. He grabs the bottle opener and pops open another one. He drinks it slower this time. It doesn’t taste as bad.

The back porch is not a real porch at all, just a couple concrete steps. Barely enough room for him and John side by side. The slight overhang provides exactly zero shade. They could be over at John’s, sitting out by the pool, but John’s mom doesn’t work and Dave’s probably home, too.

John bumps his shoulder against Ronon’s. “Not gonna bug me about cross country?”

“You change your mind?”


“I figured.”

“It’s not like,” John says. “I mean.”


It’s not John’s fault their schedules are so different they don’t even have lunch at the same time. It’s not the end of the world, either.

After a while, John says, “You wanna go skate or something?”

“You didn’t bring your board.”

“Oh right.”

They haven’t been skating much lately anyway, not since the lady whose plants John kept squashing threatened to call the cops. They spent a couple days scouring the city for another spot, but nowhere else is quite as perfect. There are hills that are steep with no bumps and streets that are bumpy but too flat, and none of them have a nice lot you can veer into at the end in case you actually make it that far.

Pretty soon John’s bruises are going to fade. Ronon has another beer to keep from thinking about that.

“We could watch TV,” he says, because suggesting they make out just seems weird somehow.

It’s three o’clock, so there’s Scooby Doo on. The one with the headless horseman. John sits sideways on the couch, knees pulled up and feet on the cushion, and Ronon thinks about crawling up between his legs for like five minutes before he finally does it. John’s mouth tastes worse than the beer, but so does Ronon’s, probably.

He slides his hand under John’s shirt, feeling for one of those fading bruises, pressing harder until John moans. He finds another one and another, but when he pushes John’s shirt up and out of the way, it’s the unbruised skin he goes for. There’s more of it than there should be, the shit John does. There’s plenty there for Ronon to work with.

He scoots down far enough so he can press his mouth to John’s stomach, so he can suck and bite until there’s a mark he put there. He pulls down John’s jeans and his underwear and makes another mark on his thigh. John’s dick is dripping precum and he’s saying fuck a lot, and Ronon doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to think about it. He palms John’s dick, pressing it up against John’s belly, and when he bites down hard again on his thigh, John jerks like he’s been electrocuted and comes all over his t-shirt.

“Fuck,” John gasps.

“Yeah,” Ronon says, looking up at him.

He can’t stop grinning.