It's totally funny. At least that's what the smirk staying pressed into the groove of his mouth is saying. When Danny neither sounds nor looks as angry as Steve knows he can get. Not even all that, honestly, put upon. Steve getting into his way, at the first set of stairs, jostling Danny's shoulder, but never moving in the slight to extricate the hand that it would take so little to.
Maneuver's for freedom slip into and out of his head unneeded. Never once dimming his look, or being given the time of day. Not when he can ungracefully, and purposely, end up in Danny's space, continue needling at him, in a fashion that brash and ultimately, entirely transparent at this point. Words for no more sake that the pleased, sizzle of sound they make between breaths, the catch of eyes and the heavy, slow, stomp of feet. "Hey, it's no skin off my nose, if you can't recognize class when it's in front of you."
It's worth every bit of it. Danny turned up five or six notches, still complaining, still walking away and dragging him behind, by that loose ring of fingers. Like Steve would go anywhere else, had anywhere else to go to. Anywhere else he wanted to be. Than headed up the straights. Skipping the occasional step as they went, leaving lights and piles behind, again. Something that catches at just short of the landing.
Lights at the edge of his vision, tipping his vision that way. Except that it's not the clothes that get caught up in the momentary sweep of the living room. It's not even the shadows that never move, even in the pitch dark. It's just that room, and this house. How it prickles everything under his skin, like a fine layer of glass dust, suddenly shifting to remind him it's there. Between his bones, sunk into his muscles. Tightening the ones in his upper back.
This house. The living room where Danny and Cath have both spent time trying to fill the gaping maw all that spaces and endless reaching floor have become. A place completely solid and yet now thinly, translucent like glass. Inverted in on itself, like it could snap with the faintest pressure, shatter into more pieces than china. That there's something in the black of his head, quieter than a whisper, than any voice, trying to imply it already has.
And, really, the lights and the mess can stay. Because the last thing he wants in that second is to go back down there this second.
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Maneuver's for freedom slip into and out of his head unneeded. Never once dimming his look, or being given the time of day. Not when he can ungracefully, and purposely, end up in Danny's space, continue needling at him, in a fashion that brash and ultimately, entirely transparent at this point. Words for no more sake that the pleased, sizzle of sound they make between breaths, the catch of eyes and the heavy, slow, stomp of feet. "Hey, it's no skin off my nose, if you can't recognize class when it's in front of you."
It's worth every bit of it. Danny turned up five or six notches, still complaining, still walking away and dragging him behind, by that loose ring of fingers. Like Steve would go anywhere else, had anywhere else to go to. Anywhere else he wanted to be. Than headed up the straights. Skipping the occasional step as they went, leaving lights and piles behind, again. Something that catches at just short of the landing.
Lights at the edge of his vision, tipping his vision that way. Except that it's not the clothes that get caught up in the momentary sweep of the living room. It's not even the shadows that never move, even in the pitch dark. It's just that room, and this house. How it prickles everything under his skin, like a fine layer of glass dust, suddenly shifting to remind him it's there. Between his bones, sunk into his muscles. Tightening the ones in his upper back.
This house. The living room where Danny and Cath have both spent time trying to fill the gaping maw all that spaces and endless reaching floor have become. A place completely solid and yet now thinly, translucent like glass. Inverted in on itself, like it could snap with the faintest pressure, shatter into more pieces than china. That there's something in the black of his head, quieter than a whisper, than any voice, trying to imply it already has.
And, really, the lights and the mess can stay. Because the last thing he wants in that second is to go back down there this second.