Good, he wants to say, but it sticks in his throat. Good, it's not off the table. Good, Steve is talking.
Steve is. Steve is stringing words together like he's threading wires into a bomb, beading each one with shaking fingers and sliding them carefully along a wickedly thin cord, but then it's like they just all drop to a haphazard lump at the bottom, while he focuses on starting another, a newer sentence, leaving Danny with a pile of words like sticks the growing sense that this room has simply folded around them, completely.
Paused while Steve kisses him, and there's something so ragged and desperate in that kiss, Danny can taste it, acrid like the sting of salt water in a cut, fear fogging up behind his eyes, so thick in the room he's breathing it in like smoke. Only, it's not his. It's Steve's.
Steve. Who has now let go of one end of the string entirely, words clicking and lost as they slither off the end and he keeps adding more, before Danny can keep up or react, dazing him with couldn't be, tripping him with won't be. Slamming a stage door wide open, so hard cracks appear in the walls of Danny's chest, with I'll never not want you.
It's not. This isn't. That wasn't what Danny was. He wasn't angling for that. Hears the words, licks the kiss off his lips and finds them dry with his shock and surprise and the sudden shameful swell of sheer impossible hope. That it might be true. That it could, somehow, really happen.
That the things Steve said outside were a cold wind blowing, screaming outside a house that can't be breached. That they were lies. That this can't go anywhere. That it's wrong. That he can't give, be, whatever it was, that they should just wash their hands of it and let it go, pretend it never happened.
That maybe this could be the truth, instead. A place where I'll never not gets replaced with what that actually means, because what that means is years, not days. It means always. It means a life and a home with another person, together, in whatever way that might, could, maybe, come to fruition. It's not the thing you say to a casual fuck buddy. It's not what you tell someone you were just trying to push away.
Not when it comes with rapid-fire words after it, all of them dropped like sticks of dynamite that are so old no one knows when or if they'll blow, because Steve is, Steve is worried. Steve is shaking himself right into panic, desperation lacing every skipped-pebble word, reaching for handfulls of them and scattering them across the dumbfounded stilled pond that is Danny's mind right now. Sending ripples of reaction washing up and over him, and he could swear he's actually tumbling away on them, on this, this thing that's sweeping up and across him and wiping away all the bullshit and fear like a wave wipes sand off a rock, leaving him naked and feeling raw with how wide open his chest has cracked. It's vivisection. These words. Steve's half-wild eyes, the near frantic look on his face.
And all Danny can think of to do, all he wants to do, is cradle Steve's face in his hands, and draw him down to kiss him, kiss these words and that uncertainty, that, God, is that fear? right off Steve's mouth. Leech it out of his skin, slowly, Christ, slowly, while he tries to piece together the things Steve said that Danny almost lost completely after that I'll never, because, Jesus. He needs to sort them out. Needs to respond. And he wants to, has words, has an answer, somewhere, but everytime he thinks he can open his mouth to put them into the world, he's overwhelmed again, lost in a confused and grateful swirl of Steve's generosity, that stupid clumsy heart of his, offering this, offering to make it easy, to try to make it as good as he can, to make it something Danny knows, as much as possible.
Already bending over backward, words dropping rapid and awkward, like he's afraid they'll get batted away if Danny gets the time to react. Like it's something he's been planning, and now can't help spilling every tiny detail. Blue eyes wide, forehead heavy on Danny's, and, fuck, Jesus, he can't feel this way about his indestructible partner, can he, like he needs to protect him, needs to soothe him, while Steve is trying, giving everything he's got. As if that somehow isn't good enough. As if there's possibly a way Danny could find it, him, wanting. As if Danny could want more.
More than Steve doesn't exist.
"Slow," he says, when he can catch his breath, when Steve's not scraping him from the inside out with mental images -- his own fingers clutching sheets, Steve's breath hot against the back of his neck -- "Yeah. Slow. And easy. It sounds good. Jesus, Steve. It all sounds good. You sound good, just, Christ. Babe. Come here, breathe, it's good, okay, I want it too, I want you, too."
Drawing him down with every word, like he's talking Steve down the rungs of a ladder. Hands cupping Steve's jaw, lips parting to press soft and firm and perfect against Steve's still feverish one. A brain-melting image searing itself on the inside of his skull. Hot, firm, moist skin pressing, bellies and legs and chest. His knees hiked up by Steve's slim hips. The long expanse of Steve's back, flexing and curling in front of him.
He can't breathe, he wants it so bad. Steve. Wants Steve like he hasn't wanted anything in years. Maybe ever. Enough that it shakes like adrenaline in his muscles. Breaks down sanity. "I want --"
Steve. Wants Steve. But. No. It's more than that. To make Steve see. That's it's not just him, is never just him. They're in this together. "I want you to have what you want. I want you to feel good."
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Steve is. Steve is stringing words together like he's threading wires into a bomb, beading each one with shaking fingers and sliding them carefully along a wickedly thin cord, but then it's like they just all drop to a haphazard lump at the bottom, while he focuses on starting another, a newer sentence, leaving Danny with a pile of words like sticks the growing sense that this room has simply folded around them, completely.
Paused while Steve kisses him, and there's something so ragged and desperate in that kiss, Danny can taste it, acrid like the sting of salt water in a cut, fear fogging up behind his eyes, so thick in the room he's breathing it in like smoke. Only, it's not his. It's Steve's.
Steve. Who has now let go of one end of the string entirely, words clicking and lost as they slither off the end and he keeps adding more, before Danny can keep up or react, dazing him with couldn't be, tripping him with won't be. Slamming a stage door wide open, so hard cracks appear in the walls of Danny's chest, with I'll never not want you.
It's not. This isn't. That wasn't what Danny was. He wasn't angling for that. Hears the words, licks the kiss off his lips and finds them dry with his shock and surprise and the sudden shameful swell of sheer impossible hope. That it might be true. That it could, somehow, really happen.
That the things Steve said outside were a cold wind blowing, screaming outside a house that can't be breached. That they were lies. That this can't go anywhere. That it's wrong. That he can't give, be, whatever it was, that they should just wash their hands of it and let it go, pretend it never happened.
That maybe this could be the truth, instead. A place where I'll never not gets replaced with what that actually means, because what that means is years, not days. It means always. It means a life and a home with another person, together, in whatever way that might, could, maybe, come to fruition. It's not the thing you say to a casual fuck buddy. It's not what you tell someone you were just trying to push away.
Not when it comes with rapid-fire words after it, all of them dropped like sticks of dynamite that are so old no one knows when or if they'll blow, because Steve is, Steve is worried. Steve is shaking himself right into panic, desperation lacing every skipped-pebble word, reaching for handfulls of them and scattering them across the dumbfounded stilled pond that is Danny's mind right now. Sending ripples of reaction washing up and over him, and he could swear he's actually tumbling away on them, on this, this thing that's sweeping up and across him and wiping away all the bullshit and fear like a wave wipes sand off a rock, leaving him naked and feeling raw with how wide open his chest has cracked. It's vivisection. These words. Steve's half-wild eyes, the near frantic look on his face.
And all Danny can think of to do, all he wants to do, is cradle Steve's face in his hands, and draw him down to kiss him, kiss these words and that uncertainty, that, God, is that fear? right off Steve's mouth. Leech it out of his skin, slowly, Christ, slowly, while he tries to piece together the things Steve said that Danny almost lost completely after that I'll never, because, Jesus. He needs to sort them out. Needs to respond. And he wants to, has words, has an answer, somewhere, but everytime he thinks he can open his mouth to put them into the world, he's overwhelmed again, lost in a confused and grateful swirl of Steve's generosity, that stupid clumsy heart of his, offering this, offering to make it easy, to try to make it as good as he can, to make it something Danny knows, as much as possible.
Already bending over backward, words dropping rapid and awkward, like he's afraid they'll get batted away if Danny gets the time to react. Like it's something he's been planning, and now can't help spilling every tiny detail. Blue eyes wide, forehead heavy on Danny's, and, fuck, Jesus, he can't feel this way about his indestructible partner, can he, like he needs to protect him, needs to soothe him, while Steve is trying, giving everything he's got. As if that somehow isn't good enough. As if there's possibly a way Danny could find it, him, wanting. As if Danny could want more.
More than Steve doesn't exist.
"Slow," he says, when he can catch his breath, when Steve's not scraping him from the inside out with mental images -- his own fingers clutching sheets, Steve's breath hot against the back of his neck -- "Yeah. Slow. And easy. It sounds good. Jesus, Steve. It all sounds good. You sound good, just, Christ. Babe. Come here, breathe, it's good, okay, I want it too, I want you, too."
Drawing him down with every word, like he's talking Steve down the rungs of a ladder. Hands cupping Steve's jaw, lips parting to press soft and firm and perfect against Steve's still feverish one. A brain-melting image searing itself on the inside of his skull. Hot, firm, moist skin pressing, bellies and legs and chest. His knees hiked up by Steve's slim hips. The long expanse of Steve's back, flexing and curling in front of him.
He can't breathe, he wants it so bad. Steve. Wants Steve like he hasn't wanted anything in years. Maybe ever. Enough that it shakes like adrenaline in his muscles. Breaks down sanity. "I want --"
Steve. Wants Steve. But. No. It's more than that. To make Steve see. That's it's not just him, is never just him. They're in this together. "I want you to have what you want. I want you to feel good."