There's nothing to do except hold on and push back, arching up under Steve, arm sliding around the small of his back, leg hitched up and wrapping solidly. As if he could somehow curl himself around Steve entirely, pull him closer, when there is zero room between them now and even the air around them is charged and sparking. This couch, he's never going to be able to look at this couch the same way again. Just like the picnic table. Just like the kitchen island. Will never not know what it feels like to be sliding on leather, pushed down by the fucking boulder that is Steven McGarrett. One hand huge on his hip, his leg, fingers tight, tugging him closer. Bracing the other somewhere behind him.
And saying low, terrible words into his ear. Terrible. Because Danny wouldn't be able to scrub them out of his skull with copper wire. And Danny can't do anything with them but thread some air into his lungs with a gasp, forehead pushing into Steve's shoulder and he's gusting a laugh on the air he can't get, before it's his mouth on Steve's shoulder, at the perfect curve where it meets his neck.
He just keeps falling to pieces, and Steve just keeps putting them all in a box and keeping him together and, God, this is great, but that might be better. All the ways it happens. So sure as he was that this evaporated over the weekend without him even knowing it, gone before he could even put up a fight.
And he would. He didn't think so, earlier, but he would, he would have to, because this is suddenly here in the world and Steve is still Steve and no more or less than he ever was, still larger than life and painfully, spectacularly amazing, like it's routine, being the best there is, and it is for Steve, but not for Danny. Who has never been the best at anything, for anyone. No more or less Steve, but suddenly so much more of Danny. Old thoughts edging nervously back into consideration. Old habits kicking in. Old instincts driving the thrust of his body and the way gravity falls a little heavier on this house and makes it so hard to actually walk away.
So he would have to. Which is insane. In twelve days, give or take, he should not be so sure, should not be so invested, but it's like saying twelve steps over water shouldn't put him under the surface. He was a goner from the very first time he put his foot down.
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And saying low, terrible words into his ear. Terrible. Because Danny wouldn't be able to scrub them out of his skull with copper wire. And Danny can't do anything with them but thread some air into his lungs with a gasp, forehead pushing into Steve's shoulder and he's gusting a laugh on the air he can't get, before it's his mouth on Steve's shoulder, at the perfect curve where it meets his neck.
He just keeps falling to pieces, and Steve just keeps putting them all in a box and keeping him together and, God, this is great, but that might be better. All the ways it happens. So sure as he was that this evaporated over the weekend without him even knowing it, gone before he could even put up a fight.
And he would. He didn't think so, earlier, but he would, he would have to, because this is suddenly here in the world and Steve is still Steve and no more or less than he ever was, still larger than life and painfully, spectacularly amazing, like it's routine, being the best there is, and it is for Steve, but not for Danny. Who has never been the best at anything, for anyone. No more or less Steve, but suddenly so much more of Danny. Old thoughts edging nervously back into consideration. Old habits kicking in. Old instincts driving the thrust of his body and the way gravity falls a little heavier on this house and makes it so hard to actually walk away.
So he would have to. Which is insane. In twelve days, give or take, he should not be so sure, should not be so invested, but it's like saying twelve steps over water shouldn't put him under the surface. He was a goner from the very first time he put his foot down.