Walking back to the house, and into it doesn't exactly make him relax. The whole house itself grates like glass that got caught under his skin so long ago it's slipped into bone, build years of muscles and skin over it. But it's low grade. Dull. Throbbing. Constant. Something he can usually, almost, ignore. Tune out. Like a sunburn, or head wound. But ripped raw by, well, whatever, it smarts at all the edged, tattering and tearing, tugging at everything else, tensing the muscles in his neck.
Sends him into the kitchen. Grabbing a cup from one of the cabinet's and upending the rest of the beer into it. Not tossing out the last inch or two left, even after most of it was lost by dropping it in the back yard. Even with the small bits of dirt and grass that go with it, floating in the liquid. Listening to Danny shuffle around in the house like he's hyper sensitive to the sound of it.
To Danny, and what he's doing even more than normal. To this idea he might vanish, and the confused way part of him says thats good and part of him that seizes the ends of his stomach, his nerves, egging him to jog the less than fifteen steps towards the closer door and makes sure he isn't leaving while Steve is in here. While he's not. Moving. Is only standing still, doing this. Pour his beer into the glass. Listening.
To the sound of steps followed by some kind of friction followed by the sounds of voices. Of channels being cut into and out of each other, when the tv is being changed. Steve dropped the bottle in the trash, with a clattering clank, and took his glass with him toward the living room. Where Danny had decide to fall on and sprawl on part of his couch, like it could just start dragging him in. No war necessary. Slouched shoulders and hand out with the remote.
Tossing out "Anything?" as he's sitting down on the other side of the couch. Placing his beer on the table and looking up some point between Danny and the television screen. Already waring with the urge to reach out and take it from him. Check five or ten specific channels instead of this constant shift, shift, shift. Not even because he cares, but because it's something at least. Something to throw this rolling, thundery, pensive, feeling at.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-06 05:57 pm (UTC)Sends him into the kitchen. Grabbing a cup from one of the cabinet's and upending the rest of the beer into it. Not tossing out the last inch or two left, even after most of it was lost by dropping it in the back yard. Even with the small bits of dirt and grass that go with it, floating in the liquid. Listening to Danny shuffle around in the house like he's hyper sensitive to the sound of it.
To Danny, and what he's doing even more than normal. To this idea he might vanish, and the confused way part of him says thats good and part of him that seizes the ends of his stomach, his nerves, egging him to jog the less than fifteen steps towards the closer door and makes sure he isn't leaving while Steve is in here. While he's not. Moving. Is only standing still, doing this. Pour his beer into the glass. Listening.
To the sound of steps followed by some kind of friction followed by the sounds of voices. Of channels being cut into and out of each other, when the tv is being changed. Steve dropped the bottle in the trash, with a clattering clank, and took his glass with him toward the living room. Where Danny had decide to fall on and sprawl on part of his couch, like it could just start dragging him in. No war necessary. Slouched shoulders and hand out with the remote.
Tossing out "Anything?" as he's sitting down on the other side of the couch. Placing his beer on the table and looking up some point between Danny and the television screen. Already waring with the urge to reach out and take it from him. Check five or ten specific channels instead of this constant shift, shift, shift. Not even because he cares, but because it's something at least. Something to throw this rolling, thundery, pensive, feeling at.