He has got to shut up. He has got to stop opening his mouth, because God only knows what will start falling out if he doesn't: curses, endearments, long-held secrets. This thing knocking around his head like falling rocks, that he absolutely cannot say out loud, partly because there's -- he just won't, and partly because it is rapidly dissolving into blunted bricks of itself. That Steve is beautiful, that Danny wants him, that those two things are everything that's beating in his blood and soaking through every cell in his body. That Steve is unbelievable in all the best and worst ways, and that there is nothing, nothing in the world like this, curling into him, wanting to wrap that ridiculous long body with every part of himself, wanting to hold onto Steve and promise things Danny should never promise.
That the world can just back off, alright. That everything is going to be okay, that they will make it okay, that Danny will, somehow, if Steve lets him try. That no matter how bad everything is, it can get better, because look at them, look at this, in the middle of an avalanche, bullshit of epic proportions, and yet Danny feels like he can breathe. Like he doesn't have to throw hatred and cynicism at the world, that it's not him, alone, screaming at a universe that never bothers to listen to him or even notice he's there.
"No, wrong." Ground out, almost into Steve's hairline, the sensitive skin behind and under his ear, where short strands tickle against Danny's breath. "You are -- the instigator, always."
Steve started it. Steve picked him. Dragged him into partnership and Five-0, when Danny hated everything in the world and nothing so much as this asshole, pulling a gun on him and demanding ID, sort of like he's demanding Danny's mouth right now, sort of like how he's pushing them both into a steady rhythm that's burning Danny from the inside out, like a coal fire simmering underground, hollowing ribcage and stomach and replacing it with heavy hard something, splitting him open in a way that will leave him feeling raw and scraped later.
Being outpaced by his own breath, losing the beat of his own pulse until it's nothing but a hummingbird hum in his head, a dizzy pounding in his ears, and he's wrapping arms around Steve hard enough that he shouldn't, should think about that rib, the few bruises left.
But he can't, because nothing else even exists. Just the need to hold him as close as he can, curl up into him, like he could crawl right out of his skin and under Steve's, and even that wouldn't be, couldn't be, close enough. Nothing is.
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That the world can just back off, alright. That everything is going to be okay, that they will make it okay, that Danny will, somehow, if Steve lets him try. That no matter how bad everything is, it can get better, because look at them, look at this, in the middle of an avalanche, bullshit of epic proportions, and yet Danny feels like he can breathe. Like he doesn't have to throw hatred and cynicism at the world, that it's not him, alone, screaming at a universe that never bothers to listen to him or even notice he's there.
"No, wrong." Ground out, almost into Steve's hairline, the sensitive skin behind and under his ear, where short strands tickle against Danny's breath. "You are -- the instigator, always."
Steve started it. Steve picked him. Dragged him into partnership and Five-0, when Danny hated everything in the world and nothing so much as this asshole, pulling a gun on him and demanding ID, sort of like he's demanding Danny's mouth right now, sort of like how he's pushing them both into a steady rhythm that's burning Danny from the inside out, like a coal fire simmering underground, hollowing ribcage and stomach and replacing it with heavy hard something, splitting him open in a way that will leave him feeling raw and scraped later.
Being outpaced by his own breath, losing the beat of his own pulse until it's nothing but a hummingbird hum in his head, a dizzy pounding in his ears, and he's wrapping arms around Steve hard enough that he shouldn't, should think about that rib, the few bruises left.
But he can't, because nothing else even exists. Just the need to hold him as close as he can, curl up into him, like he could crawl right out of his skin and under Steve's, and even that wouldn't be, couldn't be, close enough. Nothing is.