A long, slow breath leaks out, dusting past Steve's shoulder, and Danny's arm lifts, slings lazy over the back of Steve's neck. It's about the sum total of how much he feels like moving and he closes his eyes after, letting the in and out of breath calm him back down to a foggy, fuzzy, half-real existence. Floating gently awash on clouds that are hazing across every thought, muffling every sensation, softening the world into something less glaring and bright than lit lamps and a sticky couch.

Even if the leather feels like it's molding to the back of his shoulders, which it is. As far as good choices for couch fabrics on which to have sex go, leather is not exactly ideal; in fact, it will only get increasingly uncomfortable as they cool down, and he gets the distinct feeling he'll have to be pried off, once the leather bonds directly to his skin.

It's worth it. For the way Steve is piled on top of him like a snowdrift at the end of a driveway, all loose heavy limbs and warm weight, loose as water. Breathing shallower and slower now, swallowing against caught breaths and letting them out in puffs that waft pieces of Danny's hair, sticking it damp against the skin of his neck and temple.

And there's that brush. Faintest movement. The tiny sound he makes, barely heard through the slowing rush of blood in Danny's ears. Dropping like a penny in a well, spreading warm ripples through lax muscles, dragging a tired half smile onto Danny's mouth, that quirks a little wider at that little motion, the shift that could almost be accidental, of lips against his hair, a cheek rubbing gently over the mess Steve's fingers and the couch cushions made.

He's pretty sure one or both of them were trying to make a point earlier, but whatever it was, it seems to be escaping him at the moment.