The muscles of his stomach crumple, dig inward, fast and tight. Fingertips, and short, blunted, regimental nails, digging into muscles on Danny's back, even when the rest of him arches up into Danny's fingers rubbing against him, like Danny slammed past sensitive into tapping Steve with an electric current. Dragging a rough, half shuddered, gasp of a breath, nearly a groan from Steve's mouth.
There were going to be other words. A joke, that was the point. Questions. He could have drug out more details. About Grace. That was. Except it's dying on breathing in only fumes. Tasting only Danny. Hearing only his heavy, rushed breath. Because that can't be air. The rest of it falling, like a file. Out of his hand, off his lap. Filling with Danny's hands, and Danny's mouth, and how damn close he is, and how insanely not close enough it feels still. Suddenly. Always.
Danny was right to ask. How had he ever made it the whole year. If he'd known it was like this he never would have made it, couldn't make it again. Knowing what it felt like to really know what it meant saying Danny's hands got everywhere. Marking him hotter, harder, deeper that any of the dozens of needles for his ink.
Lasting so much longer, hooks in his skin, that became a low grade dull throbbing ache when this was gone.
He didn't want to think what it would be like if Danny suddenly wasn't here, on the island at all.
If Danny was gone. More gone than two feet outside that door. Mainlanded in the center of a desert. Following the one thing Danny could never leave behind. No one should ever ask Danny to leave behind. Steve couldn't believe Rachel could even consider Danny wouldn't look at, dig his heels in and start screaming. It was the one thing you didn't touch. The one thing as integral and irremovable as those blue eyes, and that gold hair, as the hands tracking his body.
Grace. Nothing in the world mattered or stood in the way between Danny and Grace. Not any location. Not any person. Not Rachel. Not Stan. Not his divorce. Not a paradise island, only Danny could hate. Because he could. He could hate everything that wasn't Grace when he needed to. And, not Steve. Who wasn't ever going to ask, but could feel it spreading out. Under the fire. Like that look on the lawn.
So small and sudden and now in comparison. So much another reason that other thing couldn't ever happen. Wouldn't.
But it doesn't stop him now. Maybe it should. Maybe it's the whole reason to slow down, back off, step out now. Make it easier. On who he doesn't know. Danny. Himself. But he can't. He can't help that the whole idea makes him dig in more, arch up into Danny's touch harder. Like it's limited, like he needs it to burn him forever as much as it just is every single time.
Not for Cath. Not for Rachel and Stan. When a bubble of air is stealing into his head, against the flood and the fire, and he's finding the bottom of Danny's shirt. That rumpled pile of wrinkled he keeps shoving up so he can touch more. Touch all of Danny, here. Still here. He didn't leave, when he ran out. Still touch those words he'd said, about wanting to be with him. Even now. Even with all of this.
Their jobs and the team and Cath, and whatever is going to happen with his contesting. One of those should make it impossible enough to stop. All of them should be like a god damn sign they should have pulled over miles ago. Except they aren't. Except they can't. Except this keeps happening. When Steve's trying to tug at Danny's shirt, against his shoulders, and he doesn't even want Danny to stop touching him. Wants the shirt will wise up and just dissolve, so he can have both.
Danny's skin and Danny touching him, the way it all goes to his head, the way it makes nothing else matter. Nothing but this.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 06:43 pm (UTC)There were going to be other words. A joke, that was the point. Questions. He could have drug out more details. About Grace. That was. Except it's dying on breathing in only fumes. Tasting only Danny. Hearing only his heavy, rushed breath. Because that can't be air. The rest of it falling, like a file. Out of his hand, off his lap. Filling with Danny's hands, and Danny's mouth, and how damn close he is, and how insanely not close enough it feels still. Suddenly. Always.
Danny was right to ask. How had he ever made it the whole year. If he'd known it was like this he never would have made it, couldn't make it again. Knowing what it felt like to really know what it meant saying Danny's hands got everywhere. Marking him hotter, harder, deeper that any of the dozens of needles for his ink.
Lasting so much longer, hooks in his skin, that became a low grade dull throbbing ache when this was gone.
He didn't want to think what it would be like if Danny suddenly wasn't here, on the island at all.
If Danny was gone. More gone than two feet outside that door. Mainlanded in the center of a desert. Following the one thing Danny could never leave behind. No one should ever ask Danny to leave behind. Steve couldn't believe Rachel could even consider Danny wouldn't look at, dig his heels in and start screaming. It was the one thing you didn't touch. The one thing as integral and irremovable as those blue eyes, and that gold hair, as the hands tracking his body.
Grace. Nothing in the world mattered or stood in the way between Danny and Grace. Not any location. Not any person. Not Rachel. Not Stan. Not his divorce. Not a paradise island, only Danny could hate. Because he could. He could hate everything that wasn't Grace when he needed to. And, not Steve. Who wasn't ever going to ask, but could feel it spreading out. Under the fire. Like that look on the lawn.
So small and sudden and now in comparison. So much another reason that other thing couldn't ever happen. Wouldn't.
But it doesn't stop him now. Maybe it should. Maybe it's the whole reason to slow down, back off, step out now. Make it easier. On who he doesn't know. Danny. Himself. But he can't. He can't help that the whole idea makes him dig in more, arch up into Danny's touch harder. Like it's limited, like he needs it to burn him forever as much as it just is every single time.
Not for Cath. Not for Rachel and Stan. When a bubble of air is stealing into his head, against the flood and the fire, and he's finding the bottom of Danny's shirt. That rumpled pile of wrinkled he keeps shoving up so he can touch more. Touch all of Danny, here. Still here. He didn't leave, when he ran out. Still touch those words he'd said, about wanting to be with him. Even now. Even with all of this.
Their jobs and the team and Cath, and whatever is going to happen with his contesting. One of those should make it impossible enough to stop. All of them should be like a god damn sign they should have pulled over miles ago. Except they aren't. Except they can't. Except this keeps happening. When Steve's trying to tug at Danny's shirt, against his shoulders, and he doesn't even want Danny to stop touching him. Wants the shirt will wise up and just dissolve, so he can have both.
Danny's skin and Danny touching him, the way it all goes to his head, the way it makes nothing else matter. Nothing but this.