Steve goes down like someone smacked him in the head with a rock, collapsing all at once, and Danny lets out another oof of breath as his weight lands all across him, making him suddenly aware of just how solid and inflexible his ribcage really is. The hand that lands on the cushion by Danny's head seems to help only to send Danny's head lolling towards the sudden dip in the surface.
It keeps Steve from faceplanting, at least, and that's good, and Steve's now slayed out across him, and that's better, infinitely better, because now every inch possible is in contact, with Steve's stupid long legs taking up approximately three hundred percent of the available couch surface area, forcing Danny's leg off the cushions, foot landing flat on the floor, bent at the knee, but that's okay, too.
It's all okay, since Steve can only lift an inch or so away, and his stomach and chest are still flat on Danny's when he does, blanketing him completely, thrumming with warmth and the low hum of a laugh that doesn't quite make it past the hollow of his chest, and Danny is just flattened, suddenly. Metaphorically speaking. Like instead of Steve lying on top of him, he's been smacked in the chest by a Mack truck blaring a warning horn that gave him no time to jump out of the way.
It's that stupid glint in Steve's eyes, the way one side of his mouth tugs higher than the other, like his lips just haven't convinced themselves that even the satisfaction of arrogance is enough motivation to showcase his delight. And he looks delighted. Bizarrely affectionate, like a German Shepherd that's convinced itself it's a lap dog. Toying with his bottom lip in a way he has to know makes something catch painfully on a hook in Danny's throat, which is so aggravating, because it chokes the words trying to push past and prove he's fine, he's fine, this isn't slicing him wide open and laying him out, isn't pouring warm honey and wine into his empty chest cavity, isn't hazing out the world and making things like the probability of volcanic eruption seems like piddly, insignificant details.
"Problem?" He realizes as he's doing it that he's wetting his own lip, in a mirror image of Steve, unconsciously. "Are you kidding? I've had the same problem for years. The difference is I have a whole new set of ways for it to be problematic, you maniac."
Like this is Steve's fault. Like he didn't drag Steve down here on top of him, greedy for contact and the solid perfect reality of him.
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It keeps Steve from faceplanting, at least, and that's good, and Steve's now slayed out across him, and that's better, infinitely better, because now every inch possible is in contact, with Steve's stupid long legs taking up approximately three hundred percent of the available couch surface area, forcing Danny's leg off the cushions, foot landing flat on the floor, bent at the knee, but that's okay, too.
It's all okay, since Steve can only lift an inch or so away, and his stomach and chest are still flat on Danny's when he does, blanketing him completely, thrumming with warmth and the low hum of a laugh that doesn't quite make it past the hollow of his chest, and Danny is just flattened, suddenly. Metaphorically speaking. Like instead of Steve lying on top of him, he's been smacked in the chest by a Mack truck blaring a warning horn that gave him no time to jump out of the way.
It's that stupid glint in Steve's eyes, the way one side of his mouth tugs higher than the other, like his lips just haven't convinced themselves that even the satisfaction of arrogance is enough motivation to showcase his delight. And he looks delighted. Bizarrely affectionate, like a German Shepherd that's convinced itself it's a lap dog. Toying with his bottom lip in a way he has to know makes something catch painfully on a hook in Danny's throat, which is so aggravating, because it chokes the words trying to push past and prove he's fine, he's fine, this isn't slicing him wide open and laying him out, isn't pouring warm honey and wine into his empty chest cavity, isn't hazing out the world and making things like the probability of volcanic eruption seems like piddly, insignificant details.
"Problem?" He realizes as he's doing it that he's wetting his own lip, in a mirror image of Steve, unconsciously. "Are you kidding? I've had the same problem for years. The difference is I have a whole new set of ways for it to be problematic, you maniac."
Like this is Steve's fault. Like he didn't drag Steve down here on top of him, greedy for contact and the solid perfect reality of him.