It's the best thing in the world. Like reaching up and fluffing all of Danny's hair the wrong way on accident. That second when he coils up, like all his hair was shifted, and launches. How the whole thing is a bodily coil and shift -- Steve can feel mapped across his legs, stomach, chest -- and then all the words come.

A storm of annoyed words tossed at his head like he must be an insane idiot. With the names, popping out in it.

Not that Danny could ever show up anywhere he considered "civilized" like this. Especially when Danny sounded so incredibly annoyed and disappointed in the world that he'd had to wear these jeans to a park. These ones. Right here. Where Steve first two fingers were following down the back center. A belt loop, before following the lines stitched at the bottom of where belt went.

Blue jeans on Danny. Such a novelty. Danny bitching about proper clothing. So not. But together, and on top of him. Laying this out with everything except a smack to Steve's chest or shoulder he has half certain almost might happen. It's perfect, then. Eyes and focus so very exacting, so lightly insulted. When Steve leans up, a little, aimed for grazing the side of his neck. When it's far more a chuckle, than it ends up being anything else being done by his lips first.

Golden warmth, of all of that, rolling out of his mouth, while his hands are spreading over Denim, thumbs tucking inside the waist, fingers spreading over his hips and holding Danny down against him. When the only word to even make it out, even gold is thick and heavy and comes out low, blackly amused mocking against the so fragile, so thin, so warm skin of Danny's throat. "Sartorial?"