It seems like no sooner than his pulse fumbles back to a natural pace that it picks right back up again, because Steve's moving in, pressing close, bumping up against Danny's arms, making one of Danny's hands drop to give him room, to slide a firm possessive palm and trailing fingers over neck, collar bone, chest, stomach, side. Flattening against Steve's back, arm wrapping as far around him as Danny can get, because there is no such thing as too close or close enough when for a second he'd lost this, completely. It was gone. Out of his hands. Not even a possibility anymore.
When it's been his for a month, and he's honestly not sure what to do if it were taken away, left behind, forced to a breaking point, because it's not coffee and dates, it's not the heady, giddy uncertainty of dancing around each other, trying to gauge when or if you've started falling.
It's already the ground he walks on. Depends on. Needs. Needs. He needs Steve. Wanting seems like such a fragile, bled-out word in comparison, because wanting has nothing to do with the cold sick panic that settled like heavy gas in his chest at the words we shouldn't. That isn't wanting. It's nothing that could amicably dropped, like an apple core, used up and satisfying but ultimately disposable.
And that's terrifying, threads worry through the few thoughts that haven't burnt up like so much flash paper, but he doesn't care, gives not a single damn. What would be the point? He just had the chance to walk away. Steve was offering it on a silver platter, no mess, no questions asked, and he'd batted it right out of his hands without even glancing to see whether he might need it.
Because he doesn't. Not like he needs this.
Steve's mouth, opening to his, the brush of his tongue, the taste, smell, feel of him flooding until there's nothing but Steve, pressed up tight and close like he's damned if he's going to try and push Danny away even one single inch, and Christ, Christ, he couldn't have wanted to say any of that, to do this, not if he's this desperate to be crushed together, not if there's this panicky edge of absolute certainty in the way his mouth moves and his fingers grip, dragging Danny closer, tighter.
And all Danny has left is a few broken words, mumbled between mouths, fingers curling hard into Steve's hair, flattened tight across his back. Saying don't, and again, don't, because there might be the slightest sliver of a chance that Steve still might, and he can't take those odds.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-04 01:18 am (UTC)When it's been his for a month, and he's honestly not sure what to do if it were taken away, left behind, forced to a breaking point, because it's not coffee and dates, it's not the heady, giddy uncertainty of dancing around each other, trying to gauge when or if you've started falling.
It's already the ground he walks on. Depends on. Needs. Needs. He needs Steve. Wanting seems like such a fragile, bled-out word in comparison, because wanting has nothing to do with the cold sick panic that settled like heavy gas in his chest at the words we shouldn't. That isn't wanting. It's nothing that could amicably dropped, like an apple core, used up and satisfying but ultimately disposable.
And that's terrifying, threads worry through the few thoughts that haven't burnt up like so much flash paper, but he doesn't care, gives not a single damn. What would be the point? He just had the chance to walk away. Steve was offering it on a silver platter, no mess, no questions asked, and he'd batted it right out of his hands without even glancing to see whether he might need it.
Because he doesn't. Not like he needs this.
Steve's mouth, opening to his, the brush of his tongue, the taste, smell, feel of him flooding until there's nothing but Steve, pressed up tight and close like he's damned if he's going to try and push Danny away even one single inch, and Christ, Christ, he couldn't have wanted to say any of that, to do this, not if he's this desperate to be crushed together, not if there's this panicky edge of absolute certainty in the way his mouth moves and his fingers grip, dragging Danny closer, tighter.
And all Danny has left is a few broken words, mumbled between mouths, fingers curling hard into Steve's hair, flattened tight across his back. Saying don't, and again, don't, because there might be the slightest sliver of a chance that Steve still might, and he can't take those odds.