Steve's laughing, and it's beautiful, the way he shines up, even in the dark, sick pale lighting seeping in through the windows, and Danny's pretty sure the light's changed at least once, but he does not give a single damn. Not when Steve doesn't move, doesn't pull away, not when he's smiling like that, laughing like that, and it's for him and not some overly friendly stranger with a nice ass and a pretty smile.
It's the kind of thought that knocks him backwards, like a sudden heavy wind, or a tackle to the shoulder, because it's impossible, but there it is: Steve, eyes gone dark and bright all at the same time, glowing like sun shining through water, and it's astounding how quickly that punches the air from Danny's lungs. Replaces it with something huge and fragile, an elephant made of glass, taking up the space where his lungs and heart need to work, straining at the pressure on his chest.
Which suddenly shrinks into a lump of cold ice at the thing that comes out of Steve's mouth, feeling like a punch to the gut, and making his hand freeze where it's still curled at Steve's neck. The blonde, the bartender? Images from the night overlapping in his head, flipping magazine pages, until he can just get back to those few minutes where she'd decided to stick around and give Steve a free drink, just as Steve continues and Danny blinks, trying to remember when she mouthed off. What the hell is Steve talking about? She hadn't said anyth --
The look he levels now is flat and unamused, nothing like the previous ten seconds worth of scrabble for his heart to start beating again and his stomach to lift from the cliffside it plummeted off of. "I hate you," he says, annoyed, and relieved, and annoyed that he's relieved, and he really does, he hates Steve like fire, a thousand angry suns burning themselves out in vengeance for that stupid trick.
"You enjoy this too much, look at you, you look like it's your birthday, it's sick." His hand finally lifts, and he waves at the road ahead, exasperated, all too aware of the pit he'd just tripped into, that Steve both pushed him into and pulled him out of.
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It's the kind of thought that knocks him backwards, like a sudden heavy wind, or a tackle to the shoulder, because it's impossible, but there it is: Steve, eyes gone dark and bright all at the same time, glowing like sun shining through water, and it's astounding how quickly that punches the air from Danny's lungs. Replaces it with something huge and fragile, an elephant made of glass, taking up the space where his lungs and heart need to work, straining at the pressure on his chest.
Which suddenly shrinks into a lump of cold ice at the thing that comes out of Steve's mouth, feeling like a punch to the gut, and making his hand freeze where it's still curled at Steve's neck. The blonde, the bartender? Images from the night overlapping in his head, flipping magazine pages, until he can just get back to those few minutes where she'd decided to stick around and give Steve a free drink, just as Steve continues and Danny blinks, trying to remember when she mouthed off. What the hell is Steve talking about? She hadn't said anyth --
The look he levels now is flat and unamused, nothing like the previous ten seconds worth of scrabble for his heart to start beating again and his stomach to lift from the cliffside it plummeted off of. "I hate you," he says, annoyed, and relieved, and annoyed that he's relieved, and he really does, he hates Steve like fire, a thousand angry suns burning themselves out in vengeance for that stupid trick.
"You enjoy this too much, look at you, you look like it's your birthday, it's sick." His hand finally lifts, and he waves at the road ahead, exasperated, all too aware of the pit he'd just tripped into, that Steve both pushed him into and pulled him out of.
"Will you get going, please?"