He's got one hand extended towards the windshield, words to tell Steve to hurry up and drive, already, did he miss the light, hello, Steven, is he now just waiting for the red to appear so he can blow through it? Except it all get s shipwrecked with the sudden electric weight of Steve's hand at the back of his neck and the way he gets dragged into the center of the car only to come up short against Steve's mouth. Against those words. Rough and almost annoyed and something he should respond to, only he's busy, his mouth is busy, opening against Steve's.
And it's just like all the shit that's been floating around his head just up and leaves. His hand comes up like it's instinct, curls at Steve's neck, thumb brushing along the line of his hair as it angles down, where sunlight picks out bits of silver in the mornings, on the few occasions Steve has stayed in bed long enough for the sun to come up at all.
Just this. Just him, and Steve, who is -- and the car, that they should definitely not be doing this in, at a green light, not late enough at night that no one could come by, but he can't pull away, finds himself pushing closer. As jealous of the space between them that he hates, that can burn away any time now, as he was of the eyes on Steve before, the smiles, the tossing hair and flirtation. Fingers tightening, and this is dangerous, he needs to let go, now, before everything catches back up with him and he can't. Before he remembers that he'd thought maybe, somehow, all this would slip through his fingers without him even getting a say in it.
It's like tearing out seams, though, to pull away, and he can't let go, is too selfish, fine, beyond selfish, because he wants this, Steve, for himself, and that's wrong but that doesn't make it any less true. Still gripping the back of his neck, licking at his bottom lip, and feeling like the night's just run over him like a train.
"There is something wrong with you," he points out, for the thousandth time, but with that edgy, sharp hollow in his chest smoothing itself over, "and this is driving me up the wall, so can you please, just, seriously, Steve, the light is green, so go already, Christ."
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And it's just like all the shit that's been floating around his head just up and leaves. His hand comes up like it's instinct, curls at Steve's neck, thumb brushing along the line of his hair as it angles down, where sunlight picks out bits of silver in the mornings, on the few occasions Steve has stayed in bed long enough for the sun to come up at all.
Just this. Just him, and Steve, who is -- and the car, that they should definitely not be doing this in, at a green light, not late enough at night that no one could come by, but he can't pull away, finds himself pushing closer. As jealous of the space between them that he hates, that can burn away any time now, as he was of the eyes on Steve before, the smiles, the tossing hair and flirtation. Fingers tightening, and this is dangerous, he needs to let go, now, before everything catches back up with him and he can't. Before he remembers that he'd thought maybe, somehow, all this would slip through his fingers without him even getting a say in it.
It's like tearing out seams, though, to pull away, and he can't let go, is too selfish, fine, beyond selfish, because he wants this, Steve, for himself, and that's wrong but that doesn't make it any less true. Still gripping the back of his neck, licking at his bottom lip, and feeling like the night's just run over him like a train.
"There is something wrong with you," he points out, for the thousandth time, but with that edgy, sharp hollow in his chest smoothing itself over, "and this is driving me up the wall, so can you please, just, seriously, Steve, the light is green, so go already, Christ."