They both flail wildly and beer goes everywhere - down Rodney's shirt, down John's pants - and Rodney can't speak for anyone else but his heart's trying to make a mad escape out of his chest. He thumps the remote against the couch cushions until the TV shuts off again and licks his beer-covered fingers. "Shit, sorry," he says, blushing wildly as he chases the beer that's running down his wrist.