Everything. Everything is crackling ice edges. Too thin. To slick. Fingers slipping when they they try to catch on solid ground. When the thought of his hands at all makes him pull back from touching Danny. Fingers digging into palms, like the choice will keep him from digging his fingers right into Danny, will mean he wasn't just doing it, even though that can't actually be pulled back.
When half of him still doesn't give a damn. Is saying, let it, and he hopes anything he did left a mark, that he does. When it's insane because Danny. Danny is swimming in his vision in front of his eyes. Perfect clear. Too clear. Pristine clarity, through a scope, and a long tunnel, clear. Jittering straight down into his spine and his stomach with a spike of cold that doesn't belong.
That stabs at the roiling heat and sick, slick oily desperation screaming everywhere else.
While Danny's got his hands on Steve's chin. His cheeks. His face. A dizzying sensation of friction so localized now, instead of being everywhere all at once, it's almost deafening. The rest of him feeling like he is wobbling uncertainly like the ground just vanished. Even though he knows he's holding still. He's holding still enough he might be shivering. But he is. He's holding still, as compared to anything else he was doing seconds ago.
Holding still. Feeling the muscles in his throat with insane focus when he swallows. Holding still. And looking at Danny, who is still in his face. Still there. Bright blue eyes. Blue, blue eyes. Telling him to breathe. Making him breathe. Holding him still. While the wind and the waves blew back into existence along with a sickening feeling of frustrated disgust washed straight through with vertigo.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-04 05:45 pm (UTC)When half of him still doesn't give a damn. Is saying, let it, and he hopes anything he did left a mark, that he does. When it's insane because Danny. Danny is swimming in his vision in front of his eyes. Perfect clear. Too clear. Pristine clarity, through a scope, and a long tunnel, clear. Jittering straight down into his spine and his stomach with a spike of cold that doesn't belong.
That stabs at the roiling heat and sick, slick oily desperation screaming everywhere else.
While Danny's got his hands on Steve's chin. His cheeks. His face. A dizzying sensation of friction so localized now, instead of being everywhere all at once, it's almost deafening. The rest of him feeling like he is wobbling uncertainly like the ground just vanished. Even though he knows he's holding still. He's holding still enough he might be shivering. But he is. He's holding still, as compared to anything else he was doing seconds ago.
Holding still. Feeling the muscles in his throat with insane focus when he swallows. Holding still. And looking at Danny, who is still in his face. Still there. Bright blue eyes. Blue, blue eyes. Telling him to breathe. Making him breathe. Holding him still. While the wind and the waves blew back into existence along with a sickening feeling of frustrated disgust washed straight through with vertigo.