Danny is helping and he's not helping. Talking about letting go, and making the first motion toward that giving Steve's body a warm, almost reluctant, squeeze that leaves Steve feeling like a bubble of adrenaline was shot directly into his stomach, snapping a firecracker inside his ear drum. Which makes it even more confusing, sort of like a slap of air, when that next thing Danny does actually is let go.
It's. He. Steve can't figure out if he's more grateful that he can tell there's air, or more annoyed that Danny let go. But Danny's fingers are catching on his forearm and his bicep and it is, if anything, a quiet sign, along with his words, to let go. To pull back. To be with him. To follow him now. When even half of his head is saying this is about letting go, to get to more, and something else, visceral and base, possessively doesn't want.
To let go. To pull away. To even hold a candle of belief that if he steps back, he'll get to step right back up. There is every chance that with air, clothes, another floor, breathing, thinking, Danny will change his mind. And he hates the part of him that knows, sweating a slick oil into the molten pool of his stomach, that Danny has every right -- he even needs Danny to know he has every right -- to do absolutely nothing. Even now.
But he is at least listening, unable to tell while Danny's talking about the tv-movie, if he's tightening his shoulder because he needs to move or because he needs to relax the muscles in. Shifting to drag his hand out of between Danny's thighs, holding that thought. Pulling out, and flexing his wrist in a circle twice, amid rubbing his fingers and his palm, the back of it, on some combination of his pants and his bare side.
Before reaching up to rub his face, trying to take a breathing, trying to remember that last thought. When the only thought that stays is that that was probably the very singular thing he should not have done. When he's suddenly breathing in warmth, shared sweat and a strong musk off his own hand. Breathing in Danny and Danny's skin. Setting a hive of bees buzzing in his ears, in his teeth.
When he can't even tell if the landstrike in his stomach, tightening his ab muscle in and down hard, is trying to make him groan in frustration at his own stupidity or with the way his body suddenly aches like someone is shoving a sharp blade through his flesh, smooth as butter, as he never can fight Danny. When he truly meant to just sort throw his hand away, like somehow he could cast it off his body to help, but it just ends up scrabbled on the next closest thing. Danny's chest.
Settling only for the briefest second, when his body decides far faster than his mind. The hand sliding up to catch Danny's chin, pushing up at the same second and leaning in to find his mouth. He's. Moving. He'll get there in a second. A moment. Another. Whenever he stops feeling like something just burrowed in right under his breast bone, and stopped his lungs, and this is the only thing, the only way he knows how to breath.
Catching Danny's lips, without even responding. Needing to pull him in. To push over him halfway, legs still tangled.
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It's. He. Steve can't figure out if he's more grateful that he can tell there's air, or more annoyed that Danny let go. But Danny's fingers are catching on his forearm and his bicep and it is, if anything, a quiet sign, along with his words, to let go. To pull back. To be with him. To follow him now. When even half of his head is saying this is about letting go, to get to more, and something else, visceral and base, possessively doesn't want.
To let go. To pull away. To even hold a candle of belief that if he steps back, he'll get to step right back up. There is every chance that with air, clothes, another floor, breathing, thinking, Danny will change his mind. And he hates the part of him that knows, sweating a slick oil into the molten pool of his stomach, that Danny has every right -- he even needs Danny to know he has every right -- to do absolutely nothing. Even now.
But he is at least listening, unable to tell while Danny's talking about the tv-movie, if he's tightening his shoulder because he needs to move or because he needs to relax the muscles in. Shifting to drag his hand out of between Danny's thighs, holding that thought. Pulling out, and flexing his wrist in a circle twice, amid rubbing his fingers and his palm, the back of it, on some combination of his pants and his bare side.
Before reaching up to rub his face, trying to take a breathing, trying to remember that last thought. When the only thought that stays is that that was probably the very singular thing he should not have done. When he's suddenly breathing in warmth, shared sweat and a strong musk off his own hand. Breathing in Danny and Danny's skin. Setting a hive of bees buzzing in his ears, in his teeth.
When he can't even tell if the landstrike in his stomach, tightening his ab muscle in and down hard, is trying to make him groan in frustration at his own stupidity or with the way his body suddenly aches like someone is shoving a sharp blade through his flesh, smooth as butter, as he never can fight Danny. When he truly meant to just sort throw his hand away, like somehow he could cast it off his body to help, but it just ends up scrabbled on the next closest thing. Danny's chest.
Settling only for the briefest second, when his body decides far faster than his mind. The hand sliding up to catch Danny's chin, pushing up at the same second and leaning in to find his mouth. He's. Moving. He'll get there in a second. A moment. Another. Whenever he stops feeling like something just burrowed in right under his breast bone, and stopped his lungs, and this is the only thing, the only way he knows how to breath.
Catching Danny's lips, without even responding. Needing to pull him in. To push over him halfway, legs still tangled.