There just isn't any closer he can get, and he hates it. Being separated by even the few layers of clothing is frustrating as hell, when Steve is shoving into him, claiming his mouth and breath and sanity just like he wasn't trying to hand them all off just a few minutes ago, hand them back, leave Danny alone with them, and, really, what the hell use could he possibly make of any of those? It's not like they were doing him any good before Steve took them over, made breath unnecessary and sanity a faintly remembered smudge of smoke on the wall.
But Steve is definitely trying to prove a point, even if Danny's not a hundred percent clear on what, exactly, that point might be. It might be won't, it might shut up. It might even be goodbye, but he's edging further and further away from that possibility, because he doesn't think even Steve would consider this kind of kiss the one you end on.
Not after Danny said don't. Breathed it into Steve's mouth, dents it with blunt fingers into Steve's back. Don't go. Don't leave. Don't do this. Don't.
And Steve's not. Steve's kissing him like he needs Danny to breathe, like it's just another symptom of gravity at work on their bodies. Steve's got a handy, clumsy with a bottle, at his side, and Danny's got an arm wrapped around him, and they're both holding onto each other like this was some kind of vicious wind threatening to rip them apart, and it's like. It's like survival instinct, and when he has to catch his breath, he still doesn't go anywhere, leans his forehead against Steve's, fingers gripping Steve's shirt, stubbornly holding on.
"Okay," he says, breathing hard, feeling like he sprinted a mile. Taking it like an answer. Like the answer he wants. "Okay, well, good."
Fingers clench and unclench, and fist again, like a cat kneading a blanket, and he's already tipping towards Steve again, as if allowing him to say anything in response would risk a repeat of the same nightmarish scene.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-04 04:00 am (UTC)But Steve is definitely trying to prove a point, even if Danny's not a hundred percent clear on what, exactly, that point might be. It might be won't, it might shut up. It might even be goodbye, but he's edging further and further away from that possibility, because he doesn't think even Steve would consider this kind of kiss the one you end on.
Not after Danny said don't. Breathed it into Steve's mouth, dents it with blunt fingers into Steve's back. Don't go. Don't leave. Don't do this. Don't.
And Steve's not. Steve's kissing him like he needs Danny to breathe, like it's just another symptom of gravity at work on their bodies. Steve's got a handy, clumsy with a bottle, at his side, and Danny's got an arm wrapped around him, and they're both holding onto each other like this was some kind of vicious wind threatening to rip them apart, and it's like. It's like survival instinct, and when he has to catch his breath, he still doesn't go anywhere, leans his forehead against Steve's, fingers gripping Steve's shirt, stubbornly holding on.
"Okay," he says, breathing hard, feeling like he sprinted a mile. Taking it like an answer. Like the answer he wants. "Okay, well, good."
Fingers clench and unclench, and fist again, like a cat kneading a blanket, and he's already tipping towards Steve again, as if allowing him to say anything in response would risk a repeat of the same nightmarish scene.