He has to wonder if Danny even gets it. This is one thing he can do. Could do. For him. Because he can't pull away from that hand on his skin, pulling him further from being as responsible as possible. Either of those. But the one drawing him down by his own heart beat. The one that brings him so close it's stretching the muscles through his neck, into his shoulders, down his back.
Blotting out the trees and plants with his face. Even the sound of the ocean quiets for the sound of Danny breathing in.
He might as well have dug out Steve whole upper body cavity with sharp rusted knives, because everything that was grounded in anything feels gone when Danny's forehead is brushing against his. Leaving this jagged, aching emptiness, that is so heavy it's suffocating. When the light fleeing the evening somehow has enough left to let him see too finely every single eye lash fringing Danny's eyelids, when they are closed, and Danny's mouth is closed for a moment, and it feels like a single word either way would break him.
Maybe either of them. Maybe both of them.
He wants to say he should, he has to, for Danny, for Grace, for both of him. But the words and every fact around them is diluting like gallons of water are filling the room, they're taking it and all his reasons away. Filling up his head, when the way Danny smells. The way his voice catches when he's pleading, and Danny doesn't plead. He doesn't. Except for the voicemails. Rachels. His. And he hates that.
Please.
More than he should. More than he can defend. More than countries falling under and terrorists getting away. He hates this sound on Danny's lips. And it's so selfish, so small compared to the world's ills that should outweigh it. So complete and gutting that all he can do is lean into Danny's forehead, his face, his space. Without even choosing it. Like no part of him knows how not to go toward Danny if he's in need. If he needs anything Steve can rip free from the world and give him.
Making him shift, only to realize one of his hand still has a beer bottle, awkwardly, annoyingly. Switching it, only so he can free up his right hand and reach up after a moment. Without touching his chest or arm or shoulder. Firming his lips, and shutting his eyes close before he can even have to watch it really. The stumbling, but so certain, almost desperate way his own hand finds Danny's face.
Across his jaw and his ear and into his hair. Against that tiny drowning voice saying this is the second he'll hate himself for it all does fall apart. If it his fault. Because he shouldn't have given in. Even when the brush of stubble, and skin, and hair, across his palm and his fingers, touching, all of it touching, that and the hand at his neck, and the deep breath in from Danny, and the hand on his wrist, and the way the man can't let go of anything, all feels like light being thrown into his own stunning, so complete darkness.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-03 07:02 pm (UTC)Blotting out the trees and plants with his face. Even the sound of the ocean quiets for the sound of Danny breathing in.
He might as well have dug out Steve whole upper body cavity with sharp rusted knives, because everything that was grounded in anything feels gone when Danny's forehead is brushing against his. Leaving this jagged, aching emptiness, that is so heavy it's suffocating. When the light fleeing the evening somehow has enough left to let him see too finely every single eye lash fringing Danny's eyelids, when they are closed, and Danny's mouth is closed for a moment, and it feels like a single word either way would break him.
Maybe either of them. Maybe both of them.
He wants to say he should, he has to, for Danny, for Grace, for both of him. But the words and every fact around them is diluting like gallons of water are filling the room, they're taking it and all his reasons away. Filling up his head, when the way Danny smells. The way his voice catches when he's pleading, and Danny doesn't plead. He doesn't. Except for the voicemails. Rachels. His. And he hates that.
Please.
More than he should. More than he can defend. More than countries falling under and terrorists getting away. He hates this sound on Danny's lips. And it's so selfish, so small compared to the world's ills that should outweigh it. So complete and gutting that all he can do is lean into Danny's forehead, his face, his space. Without even choosing it. Like no part of him knows how not to go toward Danny if he's in need. If he needs anything Steve can rip free from the world and give him.
Making him shift, only to realize one of his hand still has a beer bottle, awkwardly, annoyingly. Switching it, only so he can free up his right hand and reach up after a moment. Without touching his chest or arm or shoulder. Firming his lips, and shutting his eyes close before he can even have to watch it really. The stumbling, but so certain, almost desperate way his own hand finds Danny's face.
Across his jaw and his ear and into his hair. Against that tiny drowning voice saying this is the second he'll hate himself for it all does fall apart. If it his fault. Because he shouldn't have given in. Even when the brush of stubble, and skin, and hair, across his palm and his fingers, touching, all of it touching, that and the hand at his neck, and the deep breath in from Danny, and the hand on his wrist, and the way the man can't let go of anything, all feels like light being thrown into his own stunning, so complete darkness.