"Come away from there," Pete says, stopping a couple of feet behind where Rodney stands at the window.

The rain is cold and grey, coming down in unbroken sheets. Rodney can't tear his eyes away from the way it runs off the ledge of the window above Pete's; the thick, fast stream. He only jumps a little when Pete's hands slide around his body and the curtain is twitched back into place.

Rodney lets Pete pull him to the center of the room, lets him rub at the taut line of his stiff shoulders. It takes him a long time to relax into the touch, but when he does, it's like a weight lifting.

"Sorry," Rodney says. "I don't like the rain."

"It's okay," Pete says, and Rodney knows that he doesn't understand, that he never will, but that's not important at all. What's important is that he's here, that he's alive, and he's not going to let a rainstorm fuck up the few days he has to make the memories that will have to last him for god-knows-how-long.

So he lifts his head and gives Pete a searching, searing kiss - one he knows will get things started. Pete's kisses grow frantic, and Rodney loses himself in them, kissing back until he no longer hears the rain.