Steve is pretty sure, he has no good damn idea really what's going on. No, that's not true. He knows what, he can hazard toward why. The way, in pitch blackness, you look toward actual hazard lights, barb wire fences, spot lights and keep out signs. It starts with Rachel and ends with the freaking out on his lanai. He just hadn't expected it today, now. Aside from the fact he was very certain of this, of Danny half a minute ago, when he couldn't think about it in the slightest.
Except he could now. When he wasn't scanning Danny's face for everything there, and everything he had no idea of what might be under it, but obviously there was mountain of it somewhere, leading to all of the last half hour. To walking in, and running out. To staring at his beer, and Cath leaving. To thinking the worst of him, or everything. Listening to him talk, but it's all words, words, words. Caught in the wind, the air conditioner, dropping to the floor, with less weight than raindrops.
Because, no, he doesn't think Danny gets to have a vote in the way a very small part of him isn't kidding about the door.
But it doesn't mean he actually, actively fights back the way Danny's fingers shift at his neck, or how he's looking up, meeting Steve's eyes, or being drug back down, again. Nor does it mean he doesn't miss the dig in the words that are still far less impacting than the very clear second of hesitation before Danny kisses him, again. Ticking half-seconds that gouge into his skin like burning steel.
Enough that this time it's maybe not as gentle as the first one. As the moment that was shutting Danny up, and making him listen, making so he couldn't keep throwing words at Steve's head. Like any of it was defensible. This, no this is slightly rougher for a whole different purpose. Because he hadn't, and wouldn't, and shaking Danny and slamming him into the door could not take away Danny looking at him like he'd gutted him and all his innards were falling out.
He doesn't push them, anywhere. He didn't even go for any of Danny's clothes. He does find Danny's shoulder. One of his hands recognizing Danny's hair, when it's harder. Soft hair against his palm and the just bare enough urge, but not followed through on, to bite Danny. Because kissing him straight into the ground right on this spot, apparently, is winning ou. For this moment.
Like maybe he can imprint the words he kept saying -- and Danny kept hearing and either brushing off as mocking ironic or just fumbling through like they were Chinese and he just had to nod so they'd stop -- straight on to Danny's skin, his mouth. Nothing happened. He didn't even now what would happen if it did, he didn't even know this would happen, but it was too much of risk.
Just like it was too much of a blistering, aware, possibility in this second even. Losing Danny.
no subject
Except he could now. When he wasn't scanning Danny's face for everything there, and everything he had no idea of what might be under it, but obviously there was mountain of it somewhere, leading to all of the last half hour. To walking in, and running out. To staring at his beer, and Cath leaving. To thinking the worst of him, or everything. Listening to him talk, but it's all words, words, words. Caught in the wind, the air conditioner, dropping to the floor, with less weight than raindrops.
Because, no, he doesn't think Danny gets to have a vote in the way a very small part of him isn't kidding about the door.
But it doesn't mean he actually, actively fights back the way Danny's fingers shift at his neck, or how he's looking up, meeting Steve's eyes, or being drug back down, again. Nor does it mean he doesn't miss the dig in the words that are still far less impacting than the very clear second of hesitation before Danny kisses him, again. Ticking half-seconds that gouge into his skin like burning steel.
Enough that this time it's maybe not as gentle as the first one. As the moment that was shutting Danny up, and making him listen, making so he couldn't keep throwing words at Steve's head. Like any of it was defensible. This, no this is slightly rougher for a whole different purpose. Because he hadn't, and wouldn't, and shaking Danny and slamming him into the door could not take away Danny looking at him like he'd gutted him and all his innards were falling out.
He doesn't push them, anywhere. He didn't even go for any of Danny's clothes. He does find Danny's shoulder. One of his hands recognizing Danny's hair, when it's harder. Soft hair against his palm and the just bare enough urge, but not followed through on, to bite Danny. Because kissing him straight into the ground right on this spot, apparently, is winning ou. For this moment.
Like maybe he can imprint the words he kept saying -- and Danny kept hearing and either brushing off as mocking ironic or just fumbling through like they were Chinese and he just had to nod so they'd stop -- straight on to Danny's skin, his mouth. Nothing happened. He didn't even now what would happen if it did, he didn't even know this would happen, but it was too much of risk.
Just like it was too much of a blistering, aware, possibility in this second even. Losing Danny.