He doesn't want to count, but he does. One. Two. Three. Four. A slight shift, and his fingers tighten reflexively, in case Steve is getting it into his head to pull away.
He might. The world holds its breath, and he knows it'll lose its collective shit soon enough, if Steve does, if he moves; everything will whirl on him in a consuming tornado of sick despair that he knows all too well, and this time there's no Matty to sit and talk him off the ledge if it all goes to hell.
Which is terrifying enough. One month, and he recoils from the idea of losing it, losing Steve, the way anyone else would flinch from a pit of snakes. It shouldn't be that way. He should be able to at least consider it without some dark shadowy part of himself losing it, flinging itself against the rest of his mind and heart, emptying out his chest like Steve took to it with a backhoe.
It shouldn't be like this, but it is. Five. Almost long enough for him to open his eyes and stare into Steve's distanced face, the cool disinterested blankness he'd presented earlier, with his five devastating words. The thing that makes this even worse, because Steve, Steve had already checked out. Decided. Acted on that decision. Boxed this all up like it's something that can just get shoved in the attic with all the rest of the times he's given something up or let someone go.
Like it means nothing.
Six. Enough to make his eyelids flutter, before Steve is moving, and Danny's chest clutches, until it's clear Steve's moving closer, sliding a hand over his jaw and cheek and ear, fingers threading into hair that's weekend-loose, because you don't need as much gel to keep it out of your face when you aren't spending your time chasing criminals through the Honolulu streets, and it loosens something he's been holding onto. A rusty handle that hinges, breaks, tumbles everything in a muddle into his chest, pushing out a breath that shakes more than he'd like to admit to.
Reaction taking over, flooding muscles that scream with tension, wound into iron, and he thinks he'd have to pry his fingers off Steve's neck with a crowbar, no matter how he keeps them from clamping down too hard.
Releasing Steve's wrist, unwilling to stop touching Steve's arm, running his palm up over bare skin to the sleeve, finding the round of his shoulder, because relief is a worse freefall than panic, and he needs a second to regain his bearing, okay.
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He might. The world holds its breath, and he knows it'll lose its collective shit soon enough, if Steve does, if he moves; everything will whirl on him in a consuming tornado of sick despair that he knows all too well, and this time there's no Matty to sit and talk him off the ledge if it all goes to hell.
Which is terrifying enough. One month, and he recoils from the idea of losing it, losing Steve, the way anyone else would flinch from a pit of snakes. It shouldn't be that way. He should be able to at least consider it without some dark shadowy part of himself losing it, flinging itself against the rest of his mind and heart, emptying out his chest like Steve took to it with a backhoe.
It shouldn't be like this, but it is. Five. Almost long enough for him to open his eyes and stare into Steve's distanced face, the cool disinterested blankness he'd presented earlier, with his five devastating words. The thing that makes this even worse, because Steve, Steve had already checked out. Decided. Acted on that decision. Boxed this all up like it's something that can just get shoved in the attic with all the rest of the times he's given something up or let someone go.
Like it means nothing.
Six. Enough to make his eyelids flutter, before Steve is moving, and Danny's chest clutches, until it's clear Steve's moving closer, sliding a hand over his jaw and cheek and ear, fingers threading into hair that's weekend-loose, because you don't need as much gel to keep it out of your face when you aren't spending your time chasing criminals through the Honolulu streets, and it loosens something he's been holding onto. A rusty handle that hinges, breaks, tumbles everything in a muddle into his chest, pushing out a breath that shakes more than he'd like to admit to.
Reaction taking over, flooding muscles that scream with tension, wound into iron, and he thinks he'd have to pry his fingers off Steve's neck with a crowbar, no matter how he keeps them from clamping down too hard.
Releasing Steve's wrist, unwilling to stop touching Steve's arm, running his palm up over bare skin to the sleeve, finding the round of his shoulder, because relief is a worse freefall than panic, and he needs a second to regain his bearing, okay.