He has a few seconds to relish Danny's reaction, and he's getting to be collector of these seconds. Unpredictable, so much better than any squander blip of imagination. The way his body fires back first, before his head, and especially his mouth, even realizes. Barely the pass a second between the two. But he gets to see it. When there are hips thrust up. In to his hand. Sending them, and it, into his own body.
Shoving light into his eyes, and flickering his eyelids, eyelashes, as he holds on, through a burning sensation that is more perfect than taking a breath after breathing noxious fumes. Because this is worth it. Watching Danny fall back, push back. Shoulders and head down, but never losing momentum. Looking up at him, through the heavier and heavier shadows of night cloaking the world and this room, blown wide open.
God. Gorgeous is not even the word. Gorgeous is like a toddler only just discovering finger paints and motor coordination. And Danny, and this look on his face. This heavy lidded desperate need to find his face, that even when the need for other things doesn't release him, he relaxed, his face does, just a tick, and somehow Steve can see it. Like the world orients on him. There is no word for it. Nothing big enough, true enough, right enough.
Nothing that explains Danny Williams needs only a second, only to catch his eyes, and that scoops out, with less than a breath, every single bit of his insides. Every single bit of who he is and how he exists, flattened without the ability to bring it back, without the damn to care, if he can just fall into this, see this, and never need to see anything else, again. It'd be fine. Just this. Just Danny.
Which is all the seconds he has before Danny hand is slamming into his, blunt nails and solid knuckles, finding room where there isn't, shoving him, so he has to pull back, make room, can't even pretend he doesn't want it, even when he knows thinking will turn into the ash and spray left in the air after a mass detonation. Unable to collect or settle or have any direction. The way the world winnows, and his lungs collapse, and, even expecting it, Steve groans.
The sound torn out through gritted teeth, and a locked jaw, and his weight throws itself, toward the hand still bracing himself, burning down the muscles. The world counting down into such small windows suddenly. The burn in the muscles of his forearm. The one supporting him, even when he's pretty sure his chin just found Danny's shoulder and his face a pillow, or a pile of the forgotten sheet. The other one only ratcheting to go faster, pull more friction, shove every breaker.
Because the only other point of focus is slamming at his entire equilibrium. Not threatening to drag the carpet, already pulling it. Because the world is already tilting and he knows how little of his fingers, finger tips, nails are left holding on after dragging through a maddening, slow, ebbing, lead up. Because it should all be impossible. Today. Ever. Again, tonight.
But the edge of the world is melting, already, and he can't even pretend he cares about anything. Even holding back.
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Shoving light into his eyes, and flickering his eyelids, eyelashes, as he holds on, through a burning sensation that is more perfect than taking a breath after breathing noxious fumes. Because this is worth it. Watching Danny fall back, push back. Shoulders and head down, but never losing momentum. Looking up at him, through the heavier and heavier shadows of night cloaking the world and this room, blown wide open.
God. Gorgeous is not even the word. Gorgeous is like a toddler only just discovering finger paints and motor coordination. And Danny, and this look on his face. This heavy lidded desperate need to find his face, that even when the need for other things doesn't release him, he relaxed, his face does, just a tick, and somehow Steve can see it. Like the world orients on him. There is no word for it. Nothing big enough, true enough, right enough.
Nothing that explains Danny Williams needs only a second, only to catch his eyes, and that scoops out, with less than a breath, every single bit of his insides. Every single bit of who he is and how he exists, flattened without the ability to bring it back, without the damn to care, if he can just fall into this, see this, and never need to see anything else, again. It'd be fine. Just this. Just Danny.
Which is all the seconds he has before Danny hand is slamming into his, blunt nails and solid knuckles, finding room where there isn't, shoving him, so he has to pull back, make room, can't even pretend he doesn't want it, even when he knows thinking will turn into the ash and spray left in the air after a mass detonation. Unable to collect or settle or have any direction. The way the world winnows, and his lungs collapse, and, even expecting it, Steve groans.
The sound torn out through gritted teeth, and a locked jaw, and his weight throws itself, toward the hand still bracing himself, burning down the muscles. The world counting down into such small windows suddenly. The burn in the muscles of his forearm. The one supporting him, even when he's pretty sure his chin just found Danny's shoulder and his face a pillow, or a pile of the forgotten sheet. The other one only ratcheting to go faster, pull more friction, shove every breaker.
Because the only other point of focus is slamming at his entire equilibrium. Not threatening to drag the carpet, already pulling it. Because the world is already tilting and he knows how little of his fingers, finger tips, nails are left holding on after dragging through a maddening, slow, ebbing, lead up. Because it should all be impossible. Today. Ever. Again, tonight.
But the edge of the world is melting, already, and he can't even pretend he cares about anything. Even holding back.