The easiest, simple, truest answer is yes. Yes, he does. Which makes it all the more bizarre to wake up and have the reality lying next to him. Or makes it feel all the more like a fever dream when he wakes up alone, in the puddled sheets of the pullout, turned on and confused like time's rewound and made him a horny teenager again.
But there's that word now that catches him, because. Well. He's been having dreams like that for a little while, now. Since that night, the one he told Steve about yesterday morning. The first time. The first shudder. The first dream, barely even a dream. Half-awake, hands sliding across himself and thoughts drifting down into a gravity well he never saw coming. Full of flickers of Steve. Like this. Only not like this, because he never saw this. At the beach, sand on his skin. Water in his hair. Island brilliance in his smile. Lit up and joyful. The best Danny could do, because he'd never seen this dark heat, couldn't have imagined Steve's heart knocking against his fingertips like it's trying desperately to beat itself right out of his body.
Or maybe he'd just pretended it was a dream. Closed his eyes and willed himself asleep, so he wouldn't know better. So he wouldn't be thinking about his partner and his best friend when he was gasping and shaking. So he wouldn't have the reminder of Steve's voice in his ear, a succinct, nearly terse voicemail greeting that managed to morph into so many things. So many words. Ones he was so ashamed of having pretended, of having wanted.
Only now Steve's real, no dream, no fantasy. Stretching under Danny's hand, heart careening under this touch, being an arrogant bastard, a vain dick, and Danny would toss insults at his head until the swelling went down if those words didn't come out thin and reedy. If they weren't being said, low, through a smile that's like the goddamn sun coming up, splashing Danny with warm and brilliance, focusing all the color and light in the room on that one goofy curve of lips. If they didn't sound pushed, not tossed and easy. If the muscles he's tracing weren't shaking with restraint under his fingers.
"What's that you're always telling me?" Easy to feign innocence or consideration when he's leaning forward, finding the flat slope of one pec and brushing lips there, kissing along the skin towards the slight dip of his breastbone, before glancing up, a stupid smirk of his own pulling like a loose thread.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-02-12 10:34 pm (UTC)But there's that word now that catches him, because. Well. He's been having dreams like that for a little while, now. Since that night, the one he told Steve about yesterday morning. The first time. The first shudder. The first dream, barely even a dream. Half-awake, hands sliding across himself and thoughts drifting down into a gravity well he never saw coming. Full of flickers of Steve. Like this. Only not like this, because he never saw this. At the beach, sand on his skin. Water in his hair. Island brilliance in his smile. Lit up and joyful. The best Danny could do, because he'd never seen this dark heat, couldn't have imagined Steve's heart knocking against his fingertips like it's trying desperately to beat itself right out of his body.
Or maybe he'd just pretended it was a dream. Closed his eyes and willed himself asleep, so he wouldn't know better. So he wouldn't be thinking about his partner and his best friend when he was gasping and shaking. So he wouldn't have the reminder of Steve's voice in his ear, a succinct, nearly terse voicemail greeting that managed to morph into so many things. So many words. Ones he was so ashamed of having pretended, of having wanted.
Only now Steve's real, no dream, no fantasy. Stretching under Danny's hand, heart careening under this touch, being an arrogant bastard, a vain dick, and Danny would toss insults at his head until the swelling went down if those words didn't come out thin and reedy. If they weren't being said, low, through a smile that's like the goddamn sun coming up, splashing Danny with warm and brilliance, focusing all the color and light in the room on that one goofy curve of lips. If they didn't sound pushed, not tossed and easy. If the muscles he's tracing weren't shaking with restraint under his fingers.
"What's that you're always telling me?" Easy to feign innocence or consideration when he's leaning forward, finding the flat slope of one pec and brushing lips there, kissing along the skin towards the slight dip of his breastbone, before glancing up, a stupid smirk of his own pulling like a loose thread.
"I can neither confirm nor deny that statement."