Steve's talking, and Danny's brain is misfiring, short-circuiting into cataclysmic shutdown, saying anything that comes to mind, just to layer his voice over Steve's, while the space between them crushes out to an infinite nothing that is still not close enough. Could never be.
"Will you shut up, why are there words coming out of your mouth?"
When it feels like his veins are full of gasoline and the touch of Steve's forehead is the touch of a lit match, chasing fire through his blood and choking him with it. Asking about Danny's anger, like Danny could possibly explain it in any way that does not paint him as a possessive lunatic.
Anger that he can't explain, that is way too much for what happened, and he knows it, should shut it down, because he can't. Just can't react this way every time someone so much as glances in Steve's direction with even the most marginal of interests, but he can't push it away, either, stomp it out or pretend like he doesn't care, because he does. This. This. Steve's hand, forceful against his ribs and stabbing electricity into his head, Steve, looking at him like Danny is some storm that's blowing in off the water and Steve's determined to race him out. All brilliance and bare, ragged lines that every one else looks at and sees as pretty, attractive, something to appreciate and admire, but that Danny knows like he knows his own face.
Knowing how he wants that sentence to end. What word should be there. The one he'd use. When the only thing he wants is Steve. And for the world to just lay the fuck off, just for a little while; for Grace to stay with him and for Rachel to drop this custody case, and for Doris to -- he doesn't know, morph into some person who can't hurt Steve anymore, and for Malia to heal faster.
But Steve. More than anything, in this second. Wanting him with every cell in his body, every scattered, melting thought left in his head, every striking beat of this stupid bruised goofy heart that just doesn't get the message, ignores everything except the look in Steve's eyes and the matching dive off a cliff in Danny's chest.
And finally, finally, Steve's mouth. There. Shutting off light and air and making Danny push into him like this is a fight and not a kiss, fingers carding into Steve's hair, arm wrapping around his waist, hard. Recognizing this feeling as desperation, as fear, as really actually thinking he might lose this for no good reason at all. With "Christ, Steve," jerking out of his chest, against that mouth, before Danny's kissing him again, hard and wanting and to hell with the rest of the world, this is what he needs.
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"Will you shut up, why are there words coming out of your mouth?"
When it feels like his veins are full of gasoline and the touch of Steve's forehead is the touch of a lit match, chasing fire through his blood and choking him with it. Asking about Danny's anger, like Danny could possibly explain it in any way that does not paint him as a possessive lunatic.
Anger that he can't explain, that is way too much for what happened, and he knows it, should shut it down, because he can't. Just can't react this way every time someone so much as glances in Steve's direction with even the most marginal of interests, but he can't push it away, either, stomp it out or pretend like he doesn't care, because he does. This. This. Steve's hand, forceful against his ribs and stabbing electricity into his head, Steve, looking at him like Danny is some storm that's blowing in off the water and Steve's determined to race him out. All brilliance and bare, ragged lines that every one else looks at and sees as pretty, attractive, something to appreciate and admire, but that Danny knows like he knows his own face.
Knowing how he wants that sentence to end. What word should be there. The one he'd use. When the only thing he wants is Steve. And for the world to just lay the fuck off, just for a little while; for Grace to stay with him and for Rachel to drop this custody case, and for Doris to -- he doesn't know, morph into some person who can't hurt Steve anymore, and for Malia to heal faster.
But Steve. More than anything, in this second. Wanting him with every cell in his body, every scattered, melting thought left in his head, every striking beat of this stupid bruised goofy heart that just doesn't get the message, ignores everything except the look in Steve's eyes and the matching dive off a cliff in Danny's chest.
And finally, finally, Steve's mouth. There. Shutting off light and air and making Danny push into him like this is a fight and not a kiss, fingers carding into Steve's hair, arm wrapping around his waist, hard. Recognizing this feeling as desperation, as fear, as really actually thinking he might lose this for no good reason at all. With "Christ, Steve," jerking out of his chest, against that mouth, before Danny's kissing him again, hard and wanting and to hell with the rest of the world, this is what he needs.