Danny is breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out, against his shoulder. Slow, gentle, persistent waves of warm air. Only interrupted with the small movements Danny makes, that Steve almost feels like his body remakes itself around. His shoulder spreading slowly under the sensation of breath. His neck and his shoulders under that toss of an arm over him. That lax, yet almost possessive touch. Like he's not allowed to move.

Not that he's thinking about moving. Or at least not that he's thinking about morning much. It's more comfortable than any of the top ten worst places he's been stuck, and his body feels like his bones are still half made of a jello, but it's nowhere near the best place to be, hanging off the couch. Not even slightly close to the best places he's found himself in this predicament.

Still gasping for air, slower and slower, ache in lungs diffusing as air keeps coming and going. Plastered over Danny, like a limp mat. But he doesn't really fit here. On the couch. And it's not really all comfortable, even when on Danny is, and where he wants to stay, half hanging off the couch is not. Steve made a disgruntled noise, twitching his nose against blonde hair and reaching up a hand to brush at his own face.

Prying his eyes open, against his rubbing fingers and the light, even if it does not hurt that the first thing he's looking down at is Danny. Which does not help that faint, almost drowning impulse to move. He's so beautiful. All knocked over and drug out, fingers clutching at him thinking he's breaking rules about not being allowed to move at all. Which really all sort of shorts out his head, shoving the warmed coals in his chest briefly toward hot, and shoots off his mouth.

"Hey," Steve prodded, rather than moving more. Finding his feet or any more air. "Who said you could make a mess of my couch?"