There's some turning point, right, there has to be. There always is, where things go from good but just good to necessary, when he stops being able to think on his own or breathe without this. He doesn't have any idea where that point is, where it tips, stops being just a kiss, just because, like saying 'hi' or adding punctuation to a sentence, and starts enveloping the whole world in a brilliant fog.
Maybe it's when Steve's fingers tighten against his head, thread further into his hair. It might be when Steve's weight shifts, and the space between them suddenly shrinks, when Steve is suddenly everywhere, like humidity or light or the scent of the sea. Being pushed back, towards the couch back and Steve's arm, still there like a warm bar, holding him in place, except Danny doesn't want to be here anymore. He wants to loop arm arm around Steve's neck and drag him down, turn this into a contest of strength and wrestle him closer, but he's got the wrong arm curved against Steve's chest, forcing him to face forward, and he's still got the beer in the other hand, ignored, sitting against his leg and spreading and damp patch into his slacks.
It's not good enough. Not when Steve is giving in, gave in, let Danny convince him, because he must not have wanted to be convinced, had wanted to just put down that gate and push Danny out the door. Saying things that are going to echo in his head, now, until they come true, the shouldn'ts and can'ts.
As there's a way this could be wrong.
He knows it must be. Knows Steve is right, that it would ruin his chances in court and probably get both of them fired, but knowing it and feeling this, this perfection, that tug and drag like gravity, are two different things, don't even exist in the same hemisphere. Because this, this is nothing but right, and it needs more, better, than this contorted angle, when Steve is pushing closer, pressing in. He has to lean, pull them both off the couch back so he can find the floor with the bottle, and then shift, bodily, completely, slide the arm that had been at Steve's chest down and around, hand slipping from Steve's jaw over his throat and shirt, to push between Steve and the couch. Replace it with the hand that had been holding his beer, warm skin instead of cool damp glass.
Better. What this deserves, what Steve deserves: his full attention. The movie is a movie; they can always watch another movie. Nothing happening onscreen or in the room has anything on Steve's kiss, his own opening, lips and tongue and gentle clash of mouths. Not trying to push his way under Steve's skin, but making a stand, making a point, branding a reminder, while his head starts trying to spin and breath starts forgetting that it needs to be even and deep enough to a point in order to keep everything together.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-11 11:12 pm (UTC)Maybe it's when Steve's fingers tighten against his head, thread further into his hair. It might be when Steve's weight shifts, and the space between them suddenly shrinks, when Steve is suddenly everywhere, like humidity or light or the scent of the sea. Being pushed back, towards the couch back and Steve's arm, still there like a warm bar, holding him in place, except Danny doesn't want to be here anymore. He wants to loop arm arm around Steve's neck and drag him down, turn this into a contest of strength and wrestle him closer, but he's got the wrong arm curved against Steve's chest, forcing him to face forward, and he's still got the beer in the other hand, ignored, sitting against his leg and spreading and damp patch into his slacks.
It's not good enough. Not when Steve is giving in, gave in, let Danny convince him, because he must not have wanted to be convinced, had wanted to just put down that gate and push Danny out the door. Saying things that are going to echo in his head, now, until they come true, the shouldn'ts and can'ts.
As there's a way this could be wrong.
He knows it must be. Knows Steve is right, that it would ruin his chances in court and probably get both of them fired, but knowing it and feeling this, this perfection, that tug and drag like gravity, are two different things, don't even exist in the same hemisphere. Because this, this is nothing but right, and it needs more, better, than this contorted angle, when Steve is pushing closer, pressing in. He has to lean, pull them both off the couch back so he can find the floor with the bottle, and then shift, bodily, completely, slide the arm that had been at Steve's chest down and around, hand slipping from Steve's jaw over his throat and shirt, to push between Steve and the couch. Replace it with the hand that had been holding his beer, warm skin instead of cool damp glass.
Better. What this deserves, what Steve deserves: his full attention. The movie is a movie; they can always watch another movie. Nothing happening onscreen or in the room has anything on Steve's kiss, his own opening, lips and tongue and gentle clash of mouths. Not trying to push his way under Steve's skin, but making a stand, making a point, branding a reminder, while his head starts trying to spin and breath starts forgetting that it needs to be even and deep enough to a point in order to keep everything together.