He could, even would, move, if Danny was going to go. And maybe that was part of it, rolling over into him. Taking everything possible from this second. Especially when Danny goes still, hand lifting and staying somewhere behind him. The second of that causing a faint tension in his shoulders, his spine, when he's certain Danny might be done. Until his hand settles, carefully, uncertainly.
Finger tips in his hair, palm resting against his spine, his neck, the back of his head. All places people do not touch him. Places that serve to remind him how easily the human body can be hammered and bowled over. Strikes for an elbow, the flat of a hand, a hand solid object. But those thoughts barely register, like blurry photographs when he's feeling the weight of Danny's fingers. And the unexpected, turn of his head, Danny pressing his face into his hair.
Making it impossible to breathe. Not hard. Impossible. Like all the air evaporated for that breath he can hear Danny take.
Lips shifting his hair, breath and sound stirring it, pressing against his skin, when Danny's talking again. Following it up with something so soft Steve is dumb struck trying to figure out if it was a kiss.
Before even softer words fall out of Danny's mouth, getting caught in his head and his ears and his chest. Soft and sleepy, a little pushing, a little affectionate. And then that word. That word that makes his heart flounder and spasm a little, like a startled school of fish at an unexpected diver. Having no idea which way to go and going everywhere at once. On that tone, and those words.
Leaving him swallowing, still without a breath to pull in, and shaking his head. Uncertain if the last is at Danny, or himself, or this crazy impossible situation they've gotten themselves into, can't, won't, aren't getting themselves out of, that won't magically neaten itself up. But how that tone, that word, makes him shove at all of it. A few more days, hours, minutes, seconds. Anything.
Making him whisper, against Danny's neck and shoulder, "Shhh." A quiet, close shushing, that sounds barely frustrated at all. Like he's not tugging Danny a little closer, a little more under and against him, with that hand on his side. Like Danny is the one who's obviously besieged by this position, by all this, being held close by the force of a weight stronger than gravity. Not him, and not the whole point that he's keeping his eyes closed, breathing in, catching Danny's heartbeat against his own shoulder, his chest.
Not thinking about how even if he does -- fall asleep; babe -- he'll wake up and have to move. In half an hour, an hour, whenever he tries to straighten up and shift. But it isn't now, and until it is, he's just going to sink in here. To the soft slowing breath of Danny against his hair. Hand warm on his neck, against his head, the sheets still learning to breathe and give up fighting it all until morning, or an hour.
Whenever. Whatever. The only thing that matters right now is Danny, right here, and the soft slow in and out, in and out.
no subject
Finger tips in his hair, palm resting against his spine, his neck, the back of his head. All places people do not touch him. Places that serve to remind him how easily the human body can be hammered and bowled over. Strikes for an elbow, the flat of a hand, a hand solid object. But those thoughts barely register, like blurry photographs when he's feeling the weight of Danny's fingers. And the unexpected, turn of his head, Danny pressing his face into his hair.
Making it impossible to breathe. Not hard. Impossible. Like all the air evaporated for that breath he can hear Danny take.
Lips shifting his hair, breath and sound stirring it, pressing against his skin, when Danny's talking again.
Following it up with something so soft Steve is dumb struck trying to figure out if it was a kiss.
Before even softer words fall out of Danny's mouth, getting caught in his head and his ears and his chest. Soft and sleepy, a little pushing, a little affectionate. And then that word. That word that makes his heart flounder and spasm a little, like a startled school of fish at an unexpected diver. Having no idea which way to go and going everywhere at once. On that tone, and those words.
Leaving him swallowing, still without a breath to pull in, and shaking his head. Uncertain if the last is at Danny, or himself, or this crazy impossible situation they've gotten themselves into, can't, won't, aren't getting themselves out of, that won't magically neaten itself up. But how that tone, that word, makes him shove at all of it. A few more days, hours, minutes, seconds. Anything.
Making him whisper, against Danny's neck and shoulder, "Shhh." A quiet, close shushing, that sounds barely frustrated at all. Like he's not tugging Danny a little closer, a little more under and against him, with that hand on his side. Like Danny is the one who's obviously besieged by this position, by all this, being held close by the force of a weight stronger than gravity. Not him, and not the whole point that he's keeping his eyes closed, breathing in, catching Danny's heartbeat against his own shoulder, his chest.
Not thinking about how even if he does -- fall asleep; babe -- he'll wake up and have to move. In half an hour, an hour, whenever he tries to straighten up and shift. But it isn't now, and until it is, he's just going to sink in here. To the soft slowing breath of Danny against his hair. Hand warm on his neck, against his head, the sheets still learning to breathe and give up fighting it all until morning, or an hour.
Whenever. Whatever. The only thing that matters right now is Danny, right here, and the soft slow in and out, in and out.