He returns and settles. From footsteps to the edge of his vision, and Steve doesn't know which count he's actually more curious about. How many seconds it will take before the next thing Danny says or how many seconds he'll last before he has to turn his head and look at Danny. Take in the face he's here, at the house, on his beach, at his side, end of the days, the weekend, at his side, again.
It wasn't unheard of before, but maybe it wasn't the first impulse, especially on these Sunday nights, unless they were really bad, before things changed. Before --
-- And Danny wins. He's so surprised.
Even if Danny talking means his gaze flicks that direction and his head turns, like it's fine to forfeit.
Or like if Danny gets his, that Steve gets his as well. The wry tug at the edge of his mouth and the gentler curve to his eyes, that never quite becomes a smile but the amusement is there. Quietly apparently through the distance. When he's taking in the wrinkled up expression and the pointed point.
The way the wind is trying to toy with parts of Danny's hair, already. The way he's already poured himself into that chair like he owns it. No longer empty. Claimed. Like it's his, more than like he's borrowing it, and Steve wonders if that's just him. Not Danny. Him, trying to figure where he, or they, lost the line. No, not lost. Buried in. In among their fuck this and that, that pertained to every topic but the one in his hands.
"If you wanted some quiet," Steve says, like he's only going right off what Danny said, like there was anything before it, the mirage of something long winded and worthwhile, that wasn't the topic pressing in on Steve's ribs only steal through like air that couldn't be kept out by chain link fence.
There was the turn toward half a smirk, about as present as the smile ever had been, as he gestured toward the endless waves, and Danny's eternal nemesis, with his bottle. "This probably wasn't the spot."
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It wasn't unheard of before, but maybe it wasn't the first impulse, especially on these Sunday nights, unless they were really bad, before things changed. Before --
-- And Danny wins. He's so surprised.
Even if Danny talking means his gaze flicks that direction and his head turns, like it's fine to forfeit.
Or like if Danny gets his, that Steve gets his as well. The wry tug at the edge of his mouth and the gentler curve to his eyes, that never quite becomes a smile but the amusement is there. Quietly apparently through the distance. When he's taking in the wrinkled up expression and the pointed point.
The way the wind is trying to toy with parts of Danny's hair, already. The way he's already poured himself into that chair like he owns it. No longer empty. Claimed. Like it's his, more than like he's borrowing it, and Steve wonders if that's just him. Not Danny. Him, trying to figure where he, or they, lost the line. No, not lost. Buried in. In among their fuck this and that, that pertained to every topic but the one in his hands.
"If you wanted some quiet," Steve says, like he's only going right off what Danny said, like there was anything before it, the mirage of something long winded and worthwhile, that wasn't the topic pressing in on Steve's ribs only steal through like air that couldn't be kept out by chain link fence.
There was the turn toward half a smirk, about as present as the smile ever had been, as he gestured toward the endless waves, and Danny's eternal nemesis, with his bottle. "This probably wasn't the spot."